


How To Fix a Broken Soul

by xxxbookaholic



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Family Issues, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Relationship Study, Self-Esteem Issues, Slow Burn, Spoilers, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:07:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29158635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxxbookaholic/pseuds/xxxbookaholic
Summary: Even after so many months of butterflies in his stomach and spiders in his throat, he still couldn’t put a real name to the way it felt to look into Azami’s green eyes. More than anything else, it felt like a home he’d never known, a song that he’d never heard yet somehow knew all the lyrics to.orkumon and azami are both shattered souls, but that doesn't mean they can never be put back together again
Relationships: Arakawa Shifuto & Izumida Azami, Furuichi Sakyou & Izumida Azami, Hyoudo Kumon & Everyone, Hyoudou Kumon/Izumida Azami, Izumida Azami & Everyone, Rurikawa Yuki/Sumeragi Tenma (Implied)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	How To Fix a Broken Soul

**Author's Note:**

> ( warning: this fic references the loss of a love one, panic attacks, and anxiety. if you cannot handle these topics, please refrain from reading.)

**_[ a broken heart ]_ **

Azami was nine when he felt the floor give way under him. Cold air was beating down on his neck, making his hair stand on end, and his foot tapped against the tiled floor. Unlike his father, who simply clapped his hands together and prayed for everything to be alright, he could do nothing but stare at his mother’s eyes. With every beep of the life detector, her eyes that were once full of life became nothing more than a dull gray.

No matter how much makeup they caked onto her face together, or how many times he applied lipstick as best he could to hide her cracked lips, nothing they did could change the truth of her condition. It was common knowledge since the beginning that everything would end like this, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. Every voice, every, “sorry for your loss,” was a stab to the heart. Just a reminder of everything his family had lost that night.

His father rested a hand on his leg but he didn’t even feel it, too stuck in his own head to see anything but Mother. “There’s nothing anybody could have done. She was a dead woman walking,” he said, and even if Azami knew that he was fighting back tears as they spoke, he couldn’t help shaking him off.

Azami’s mind was running fifty miles an hour, but even then he could still cringe at the way his voice cracked. “That’s all you’re going to say? Mother is dead!”

Father stood up, kicking the seat to the side in a frenzy. “What do you _want_ me to say?” He asked, sounding desperate. “This was out of our control and you know that! Stop acting like it’s my fault. You’ve been doing that since she was first admitted to the hospital and I’m sick of it.”

Azami looked down in shame, bottom lip trembling. “I’m sorry,” he said, trying to sound genuine.

There was a sigh, and then his father muttered, “that’s fine, son. That’s fine.”

“Yeah,” Azami agreed, nodding. “That’s fine.”

They fell into silence. Father got caught up in a flurry of paperwork and funeral arranging, and Azami stayed still in that chair, wanting to savor every last second in that hospital room.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he must have known this would be the last time he’d see his mother anywhere but a cold casket, but he still didn’t want to believe it. For the first time in his life, he thought his own imagination was better than reality.

Every now and then, a nurse would turn and ask him questions. They would vary in topic, going from, “can I do anything to help?” to, “so, how’s school going?” It was as if the staff were split down the middle, unsure of whether they should comfort or distract him. He wanted neither, both, everything, and nothing. He wanted his mom back.

But that couldn’t happen, as he was reminded very obviously by the hospital bed, so he settled for a juice box instead. Words of condolence didn’t do a thing for him, not when they came from outside parties who only said what they did for a bit of spare cash.

His world had never felt so wide.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

He was ten when his mother’s funeral was held. Birthdays had come and passed without a present or cake in sight. In fact, he would have forgotten all together if not for the rushed text he got from his father reminding him.

Black crowded his vision, coming in the form of dresses, jackets, hats, and one-piece suits. Color could only be found on the décor, which tried and failed to brighten the mood. A lot of the guests couldn’t even care less about their mother, most of them being simple sponsors or trade partners. It would have been insulting if Azami believed any of that event to be genuine as it was.

Besides when they stood in front of her casket, his father spent the hours before the ceremony talking about business. He didn’t reminisce on their first date, nor did he tell stories about the ones after that. All that came out of his mouth was money and finances.

Azami stared at the smudged lipstick her mortuary cosmetologist had sloppily painted on, and out of every corner of his mind, his most clear thought was, _I could have done better._ He was sure she would have preferred him doing his makeup over any trained professional, anyways. But alas, there she was, having been dressed up and decorated by a woman who couldn’t care less instead of her own son.

He scanned her body, allowing every detail to sink in. Memorization had always been his forte, and now was his time to put that skill into action. He refused to ever forget what she looked like, what her hand felt like against his cheek, not even for a second.

A pat on the back broke his focus. “The priest is about to speak. Let’s sit down,” his father whispered into his ear before grabbing his hand and pulling him back to their seats. Azami would have tugged away if he wasn’t still in shock from the sight of his mother’s cold, dead body.

A hush fell over the building as the priest came to the front and began to talk of scriptures and life’s beauty, but Azami only heard maybe a quarter of the whole thing. His gaze was still stuck on the casket, the rest of the people having faded out of his mind a long time ago.

She wouldn’t have wanted to be stuck underground for all of eternity, he didn’t think. Or maybe that was just his own wishful thinking and projecting. Either way, he wanted to leave with her. Escape the fake apologies and relish in the light his mom used to bring to his life.

Tears that he didn’t bother to wipe away dripped off his chin freely, warming his face. He didn’t care who saw, if anybody was even paying enough attention to see. Just when he thought it was over, he just kept on crying. His hands shook on his lap but he kept staring straight forward, despite his blurry vision.

Father didn’t dare touch him. He recited prayers when he was asked, spoke when he was expected to, and acted hopeful, but Azami knew better. When they got home, he would indulge himself straight back into work again as if none of this happened. The only sign that he cared would be the soft sniffles traveling through his office door.

“May God grant her a safe passage into his kingdom,” the priest said, loud and clear, his eyes shut tightly closed. Azami kicked at the ground and reminded himself that it didn’t matter how sympathetic the speaker sounded; he was only there for a paycheck. It seemed like money was all people cared about anymore.

He was ten when he realized all he had was himself.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

It didn’t take very long after the funeral for Azami’s father to become busy with non-mom-related things once again. He began to spend more and more days either out or filing in his office, thus leaving Azami to take care of himself. In the beginning, staying home alone ran smoothly. He reorganized his new makeup palettes for the fifth time, sketched pictures of the tree in his backyard, ate straight from the cookie jar, threw out old toys. Only when he tried to play soccer in the house and knocked over an expensive vase did his dad finally take the initiative and find him a babysitter.

That was what got him to where he was, sitting at the table and glaring straight into Sakyo’s eyes. Unlike Father, the blonde was very strict. He made charts to keep up with jobs around the house, put way too much effort into meals, and forced him to fold his clothes before putting them away. In other words, living with him for seven hours a day was hell on earth as a ten-year-old.

“You’re going to stay right here until you finish your dinner,” Sakyo ordered, his legs crossed and his nose high in the air. It was clear that he wasn’t planning on budging, not even for a second. Azami just scowled and shook his head, pushing the plate away.

“Who’s in charge here?” Sakyo asked, tapping his finger on the table. Before the boy could answer, he said, “me. I am. You will eat this spaghetti.”

Azami puffed out his cheeks. Why did his dad have to leave him with such an asshole? He didn’t understand, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to. “No,” he protested. “You aren’t Father.”

“No shit,” the man huffed, leaning forward. “But I am getting paid for this. The least you can do is listen.”

“No!” He repeated, slamming his hand on the table. God, why couldn’t Sakyo just leave him alone?

Sakyo opened his mouth to speak but then promptly snapped it shut, his eyes narrowed. After eyeing him, he sighed and said, “if you eat this dinner, I’ll let you help me make dessert. You’re getting bored, right?”

Azami flinched at the suggestion, arms tingling. This was another terrible, awful thing about Sakyo; he was always right, and he knew it. Bargaining never turned out well when he was over. “Only if we’re making cookies,” he finally relented, grabbing the utensil by his plate.

Sakyo broke into a small smile, his eyes having become softer than they were just a few seconds ago. “I think I can make that happen.”

“Then we have a deal,” he said before shoving a forkful of noodles into his mouth, his cheeks puffing up for a completely different reason.

 _Well, if it’s for a cookie or two_ , Azami thought begrudgingly while he shoveled down his dinner, _I guess I can listen._

And if he smiled a lot more than most nights while he made those cookies, it was nobody’s business but his own.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Not counting his less than pleasant babysitter, Shifuto was the first person who proved to him that he didn’t have to be alone. He waltzed straight into his life, bypassing any and every warning their peers gave him. With those sparkling eyes and that naïve grin, he broke down the barriers Azami had so carefully built within seconds.

It all started in third grade, when they were just learning to multiply and forgetting how to spell ‘because’. Most kids stayed away from him, having heard news from his parents about his family situation and rank in the yakuza. Shifuto, however, was not like most. He ignored the status quo and always said he wanted to seek his own path. For a nine-year-old, he was awfully sharp. Almost annoyingly so, actually.

He tried to push him away as obviously as he could, whether it be by quite literally shoving him away from his toys or telling him off in the only way he knew how, but Shifuto was undeterred. If anything, he only pressed harder when Azami tried to defy him, his interest piqued.

“Who’s _‘Yakuza’_?” He asked one afternoon, nibbling on a sandwich. They were sitting together in the cafeteria, surrounded by loud voices and running children. Teachers scolded the rambunctious kids to no avail, their voices only getting quieter and quieter the more they were interrupted. For the people who were supposed to be their role models, they sure were doormats.

Azami had to stop himself from rolling his eyes while he responded, “Yakuza isn’t a person. It’s an organization.” It was the first time he’d spoken since sitting down, and it was just to explain some sick boss-driven corporation. Shifuto’s eyes lit up at the answer, seemingly ignorant to Azami’s grimace.

“Wow, that’s so cool! What does Yakuza do?” He asked between a mouthful of peanut butter, his voice sticky and barely audible. If Sakyo had been there, Shifuto would have earned a slap across the face, and maybe a stolen phone for good measure.

“Crime. They steal, kill, and traffic. Not so cool now, is it?” This time, Azami _did_ roll his eyes. “Haven’t you wondered why people avoid me?”

“Oh, I already know why,” Shifuto confirmed, nodding his head. “Because _you’re_ in the Yakuza, right?” He didn’t seem all that bothered by the fact, stuffing his face with bread after each word like it was the end of the world. Gross.

Azami sighed. “My father is. Why?”

“I’d like to meet your dad!” Shifuto said, nine years old and far more confident in himself than any teacher in that room. If Azami wasn’t already so used to his ridiculous proclamations, his jaw would have dropped.

“For what?” Azami asked instead of pointing out that his father wasn’t exactly the kind of person to hold playdates. He had found that it was better to entertain Shifuto’s crazy ideas than argue against them.

“Don’t all friends have to meet the family at some point? It’s like when you get a girlfriend,” he shrugged, finally zipping up the bag that used to store his lunch. Azami, on the other hand, wasn’t even half done with his food, still nibbling on a potato chip and pointedly ignoring his salad. He could just throw it out and lie to Sakyo about eating it.

Azami nearly choked, his nose scrunched up from the mention of dating. That was the last thing he wanted to do, especially at his age. How could he possibly have time for a girlfriend? He didn’t even know what he wanted for dinner on Sunday, let alone who he wanted to spend his life with. “But you aren’t my girlfriend.”

“Am I not?” Shifuto joked. It was supposed to be completely innocent, just a comment they’d laugh off and forget about within minutes, but the idea made Azami’s face heat up nonetheless.

“No!” He yelped, slamming his hand on the table. “No, you’re not.” Going out with Shifuto? That was just absolutely insane. He was a _boy_ , and… and… Azami didn’t even know why he was getting so upset about it.

“Jeez, am I really that ugly?” The boy across from him giggled, lip quirking up in a shameless grin. If Azami had half a mind, he would tell him to leave it alone. ( _Besides, Shifuto was the complete opposite of ugly, not that he’d ever admit that._ )

Azami was almost eleven and knew that his friend was way prettier than any of the girls in his third grade class. What he didn’t know, however, was why the thought made him drop his head in shame.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The feeling didn’t last. It couldn’t, when Shifuto was quite possibly the messiest eater Azami had come to know and his smile just stopped glittering like it used to. By thirteen, he had forgotten his feelings had existed at all, too caught up in his home life to see past even his own hand.

Things with his father began to take a downward spiral for the worst. Where they used to be bad, they became terrible. They couldn’t even say good morning to each other without getting into a heated argument about this and that, to the point where Azami was tempted to just call it off and move in with Sakyo for good.

Makeup was his only saving grace. Whether it be bottles of lipstick, eyeshadow palettes, or swatches of foundation, he immersed himself in the craft, allowing the rest of the world to slip away into the white noise. On the mornings where his father took up the bathroom, he couldn’t even find a reason to get out of bed, instead opting to stare up at the ceiling and watch his ceiling fan whir in a hypnotizing circle.

Shifuto was quick to call him in the weeks where his dad wasn’t away for business, reminding him to get up, drink some water ( _for your face_ , he assured), and everything else that helped constitute him as the average living, breathing human. Some days it helped, some days it just made Azami feel worse about the situation.

Some days he wondered what it would be like to run away and never look back.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

For one reason or another, that dream became a reality. Just a few months before his fifteenth birthday, his father found the makeup he had been hiding in his bathroom drawers. Something about losing his razor he said, but whatever the reason for searching through Azami’s stuff, it didn’t really matter. What did matter was that Azami was now standing in front of a bag of clothes and googling where the nearest inn was located.

There was a cheap one a few blocks away from his house, but all of the rooms were filled up, leaving only the one an hours drive away. Without a car, or a license, getting over there really would be the worst, but Azami had made a commitment that he was serious about following through with. So aching feet it was.

With a huff, he hiked his bag up on his shoulder and ran down the stairs, ignoring the protests coming from a maid who was sweeping in the dining room. Cold air made his hands prickle the second he opened the door, standing as a reminder of the jacket he’d left on his bed, but he ignored the sensation and kept on going, slamming the door shut behind him.

If his father wasn’t so difficult to get along with, if Mother was still alive, if Shifuto had been there to stop him, none of this would be happening. Azami had no other choice but to leave, not with the icky tension that followed him around in that house day in and day out. _It’s only for a little while,_ he promised himself, almost sadly, _and then I’ll go back._

He walked a few miles and then stopped for a break, sliding down the wall of a nearby convenience store. His phone buzzed in his pocket but he ignored it, determined to cut himself off from that household, even if just for a few days.

Rain pounded down around him, dampening his hair and making his arms tingle. Bells jingled as the door beside him opened and shut repeatedly, people coming in and out with umbrellas in hand. His own lack of a raincoat reminded him of one particular day, back when he was thirteen.

In the seventh grade, Shifuto and him attempted to run away. Unfortunately, however, they had made some grave miscalculations and by the time they got back home, they were dripping wet, covered in bug bites, and bleeding from the knees. From then on, Azami brought bandages everywhere he went.

He was considering just calling his childhood friend and asking for a ride when there was a honk coming from directly in front of him, followed with a frantic, “Azami!”

Azami whipped his head up to see none other than Sakoda and his motorcycle. He opened his mouth to respond, maybe to tell him to fuck off, when the man continued, “where are you going?”

“Anywhere but that house,” he spat, a scowl spreading across his face.

“You’ve got nowhere to go!” Sakoda argued, still not hopping off the seat. He was eyeing him up and down, probably judging his lack of rain attire, and there was a wild look in his eyes. He was right, Azami knew he was, but he still pounded his fist against the sidewalk in irritation, just about ready to scream. “Just calm down a little.”

Azami sighed, finally flattening his back against the wall and dropping his head. At that point, he was exhausted and ready to fall asleep at any moment, eyes burning from the strain of keeping them open. “Help me, Ken-san,” he begged, still shivering from the cold. “I don’t want to go back to that house anymore.”

Sakoda relaxed after that, his gaze softening. He was the only person who had stuck around and made an effort to help Azami out, even when he was acting like a spoiled toddler, and for that, the teenager was grateful. “I mean, I really want to help, but my place is a four-and-a-half mat room.”

Azami shook his head. He should have known that Sakoda couldn’t do anything, even if he wanted to. However, just before he was going to completely lose hope, the man exclaimed, “that’s right! Azami, can you make up with Sakyo?”

“Huh?” He asked, one eyebrow raised. Sure, he could if he really wanted to, (which he didn’t), but how did that have anything to do with finding a place to stay?

“He’s found a home for himself in the Mankai dorms. If you two could just come to an understanding, you’d be able to stay with him!”

Azami wrinkled up his nose in distaste. The idea of that seemed awful. Sakyo had left him behind without looking back for a second, so why would he care? If anything, he’d probably send him right back to that hell of a house. “Are you sure?” He asked, hesitant.

“Positive!” Sakoda said. He had to yell to be heard over the thunder that had begun to roar, his voice strained.

Azami would have disagreed if the cold wasn’t beginning to stick to his skin like paste. So, instead of saying no, he nodded and moved to sit in the seat behind Sakoda, hands moving to hold his waste in an attempt to stay on the motorcycle.

“Then we need to hurry,” Sakoda said, more to himself than the boy behind him, and then began to drive in a direction completely opposite of where Azami had been heading. _What am I doing?_ He wondered, staring straight ahead at the man’s shoulder blades.

Buildings went by in a blur of bright lights and pounding music, making Azami feel drunk. He was beginning to be dizzy, too. Whether it was from his lack of sleep or the mode of transportation, he was unsure. All he really knew was that he was finally getting away, and because of that, he found himself relaxing.

He had no place in that house, not anymore. His father had made sure of that. Now all he could do was try his best to sustain himself for the time being.

**_[a broken mind ]_ **

Kumon was sixteen when everything fell into place. Before that night, he had lived a life full of buzzing white noise and blurry figures, reminding him of all the things he was not. Baseball bats lined his wall, trophies that he never truly earned sat on display in his childhood bedroom, and club applications that would never be filled out were stacked on his desk.

With the way his mind screamed and hollered at him, he’d never expected that all the noise could go silent just because of one teenage boy. That night, however, he realized the best things happened unexpectedly.

“Don’t call me _Bon_ , shithead Sakyo,” a voice broke through Kumon’s train of thought. He had been at the dinner table, studying his lines, when the door slammed open and multiple people stepped through it.

“He called Sakyo-nii a shithead,” Taichi said, his voice ringing with worry. His eyes were wide in surprise at the proclamation, and he held his hands tightly against his chest, almost as if he was scared of getting too close. Kumon, on the other hand, didn’t share the same worries, instead getting up to move _closer_ to the noise.

“He sure is reckless,” came the voice of another man, Omi. His hands were on his hips and he was eyeing the boy who had spoken first with a sort of judgmental gaze.

“He really is their heir,” Banri said, sounding more amazed than concerned.

Kumon stopped walking when he was just beside Taichi, and the second he got a good look at the stranger, his heart stopped. Never before had he referred to a boy as ‘beautiful’, and yet here he was, staring at this boy he’d only talked to once and unable to find any words to describe him other than ‘ _beautiful_ ’. Black hair went down to his shoulders in wavy layers, shining in the yellowish lighting, and his eyes were so blue that Kumon swore he could swim in them. Even with his clothes completely soaked through, he was breathtaking.

“Hey!” He interrupted before he could stop to think it over, fingers intertwined in front of him as he leaned forward. “You’re the super strong middle schooler from that one time!”

Said ‘super strong middle schooler’ turned on his heel abruptly, eyes narrowed. “Hah?” He huffed, clearly not in the mood for idle chatter. Still, Kumon had started this, and he was determined to finish it, even with the way his face flushed at the sudden attention.

“You were surrounded by a bunch of rough guys and knocked them all out in a second! I called out to you, remember?” His voice broke somewhere in the middle, drawing a grimace onto his face. Damn consequences of being a teenager.

The boy’s eyes lit up just slightly in recognition, his posture relaxing. “Oh,” he breathed, looking Kumon up and down with an unreadable expression. The unchanging gaze made his arms itch and his nose twitch, resulting in him bouncing up and down to ease the tension.

“So it really was Bon,” Sakyo interjected, nodding slowly. _How do they know each other?_

Everyone fell into silence, looking around at each other with pained looks. Pretty soon, the awkwardness made Kumon jump to attention, mouth opening without his consent, “what’s going on?” He asked, all the while itching his hand. “Are you going to join the troupe, too?”

‘Bon’ glanced at him, a frown plastered onto his face, and then he shook his head. “Ken-san, let’s go somewhere else. I can’t live with _him_ ,” his eyes flicked over to Sakyo at the last part. It didn’t matter that he had only just arrived; Kumon’s heart dropped straight down to his feet at the idea of ‘Bon’ leaving already.

“Somewhere else?” Sakyo scoffed in response, crossing his arms. “Where are you going to go?”

“Who knows. It’s got nothing to do with you,” the boy said, kicking at the ground.

“I know you’ve got nowhere to go.”

‘Bon’ went quiet for a second and then continued, “I’m going to stay at a friend’s place.” _Please don’t,_ he thought but didn’t say, not wanting to sound creepy or touchy.

“You plan on staying there for days? Don’t be a burden,” Sakyo said, not looking away from the boy for a second. It was scary, when he got intense like that. Kumon wasn’t sure how ‘Bon’ could stand being stared at like that. _They must be really close._

“Hey, Sakyo-san,” Sakoda broke into the conversation, twiddling his thumbs. “Can’t you just let him stay for a little while- “

Sakyo took a deep breath and then nodded. “If you’re going to be a freeloader, then there’s one condition. Live in my room.”

The boy bristled at the very idea of that, taking a step back. “Hah? Why?”

“I can’t have anyone else here wipe up your mess,” Sakyo explained, his tone of voice sounding more like he was warning him than explaining something.

“Why the hell would I share a room with shithead Sakyo- “

“Azami, come on, just let them take care of you!” Sakoda stopped him right in the middle, gripping his shoulders and looking at him pleadingly. _So that’s his name,_ Kumon thought to himself. He was tempted to say it aloud, just to test it out. “If you stay here, the chairman won’t make a fuss, and I also won’t have to worry.”

When Azami didn’t say anything, Sakoda said, “please?”

The boy looked back at him, then back to Sakyo, and sighed. “If you insist, Ken-san.”

“Good!” Sakoda cheered, letting go of him.

Kumon zoned out from that point on, too distracted by his nerves to pay attention to the way the conversation escalated from there. His heart was pounding and he was certain his face was tomato-red. Still, it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling, not like a panic attack or fever. It was giddy, and he couldn’t help himself from smiling when Azami met his eyes.

He didn’t have time to question _why_ he felt this way about another boy before Azami was being led away by Sakyo and Taichi was asking if Kumon needed help with rehearsing, to which he declined.

Droplets of rain could be heard from outside the window beside the couch he eventually settled on, lighting flashing behind him every now and then. He was a weird mix between overly comfortable and agitated, and he wanted to savor the feeling for as long as he could.

His world had never felt so small.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Surprisingly enough, the first time Kumon had a true conversation with Azami was a whole week later, and not in the Mankai dorms. He had been sitting in the local soccer field, taking in rays of sun and heat against his skin. Just a year ago, his Saturdays were filled with baseball practice and eating out with the team. Now, however, all he could do was waste time with meaningless thought patterns and clenched fists. _How did it come to this?_ He wondered, squinting up at the sky and counting clouds that drifted by.

It was pathetic. What would Yamaguchi think when he learned where Kumon ran to, or even worse, his coach? Maybe he should just quit Mankai before he got in the way–

“What are you doing out here?” An oddly familiar voice cut through his train of thought, laced in with a mix between pure curiosity and utter intimidation. Kumon jolted in place, his hands finding their place under his legs, before he looked up to face the speaker.

Just the sight of Azami’s face caused blood to run up to his face, tinging his ears with a red that was surely brighter than any wild flower in that field. _Why is he here? Was he looking for me?_ That thought was immediately shoved out due to how ridiculous it seemed. _Why would he ever look for me when he barely even knows my name?_

Kumon coughed and fell into a steady grin, not even having to fake the happiness that flooded his mind. “Just taking a walk!” He chirped, leaning back on his elbows. “What about you? Getting some air?”

Azami was quiet for a second, studying his face as if he were looking for something, but apparently his search came up empty, since he just huffed and rested his hands on his hips. “Yeah. Sakyo’s insufferable; how do you guys deal with him?”

“Practice,” Kumon joked, and then corrected himself a moment later with, “I’m kidding. Sakyo is actually really nice if you’re on his good side!”

“Yeah right.” The black-haired boy rolled his eyes and scrunched up his nose in distaste, eyes not portraying any emotion but irritation. “He must really hate me then.”

“I doubt it!” He shook his head, his bottom lip jutted out in a poutful manner. “You’re so awesome, I don’t see how anyone could hate you!”

Azami’s eyes widened but the protective glint in his eye didn’t stray far, not even when pink dusted itself across his cheek, or when he looked away awkwardly. “You don’t even know me,” he scoffed, but it came out weaker than his other jabs, his voice falling near the end.

Kumon brightened at the less-than-angry reaction, his knee halting in its shakes for just long enough to respond, “you’re technically my dormmate now, aren’t you? That makes us friends!”

The makeup artist’s face reddened even further at that, although Kumon could only see it for a second before he turned around and started making quick strides towards the park exit. “You’re a weird one, Hyodo.”

Kumon would have told him to use his first name if Azami wasn’t already out of sight before he could process what he’d said, so he settled for a small smile and a, “see you tonight!” instead. Azami didn’t say anything else, and his pace didn’t slow down, either, but judging by the half wave he sent Kumon’s way, their conversation was at least half a success.

For the first time since quitting baseball, the quiet of a sports field sent nothing more than shivers up his spine.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“Hit a homer! A–za–mi! Go, go, let’s go!” Izumi’s excitable voice rang out across the play field, drowning out any arguments or chatter, and yet Kumon could still only half hear her over the wind rushing to his ears. Nothing could beat that feeling of adrenaline. Power rushed through his veins, reminding him in echoey whispers of his feats and achievements, and if he wasn’t so focused, he would surely be wearing a dopey grin.

Azami, on the other hand, looked much more resigned, his brows knit together. “I prefer soccer, you know,” he mumbled just loud enough for everyone else to hear, but the grip on his bat didn’t relent nonetheless

Kumon took a deep breath, rolled his shoulder around, and then threw the ball as hard as he could, summoning all the strength he had left. To his surprise, despite his newfound lack of experience, the ball was far quicker than he expected it to be, brushing past Azami’s waiting arms like a rocket ship. “Strike!” The manager declared after a small delay.

“So fast!” Izumi breathed, her eyes calculating. She was more correct than Kumon had originally thought her to be. He himself was in shock from the impact, but he tried his best to play it off as something that was done on purpose. Muku threw the ball back and Kumon caught it in his glove, staring down at it.

“Huh,” Azami said, a bit louder than his voice had been earlier. “You’re pretty good.” His surprise was hidden quite well by a stone-faced mask, but he couldn’t hide the way his stare burned even stronger than before. Kumon was stuck between being happy or upset that Azami hadn’t been expecting such a powerful play.

“Yup, my arm’s out of shape,” he said, more to himself than anybody else. Somebody opened their mouth to speak, he was sure of it, but before his troupemates could get off topic, he shook the disturbance off and threw the baseball for a second time.

Azami’s eyes narrowed as yelled, “I won’t let you!” Unlike last time, the bat actually made contact this time, bouncing off aluminum and across the field.

“He hit it!” Taichi yelped from the crowd of people on the outfielders’ side, his voice louder than anybody else who had spoken so far.

The manager broke through everyone’s chatter before either of the players could do anything. “Foul ball!”

Kumon breathed a sigh of either relief or annoyance, he couldn’t tell which, and then nodded. “You’re good, Azami.” _Better than good,_ his traitor of a brain supplied easily. _No,_ he corrected himself firmly without reason, digging his heels into the dirt in an act of unnecessary defiance, _just good._

Azami met his gaze and all of Kumon’s thoughts came to a stop instantly, like a stream would when coming in contact with a dam. Suddenly, his sweat felt stickier than it had two minutes ago. “I’ll get it next time.” The way his mouth twisted into a concentrated frown made the purple-haired boy’s heart pound even harder, this time not from the running.

If the manager hadn’t blown his makeshift whistle, Kumon would have surely spiraled into ecstasy. Instead, he took a breath and threw the ball one more time, aiming just barely to the right of his opponent’s bat. Like promised, Azami delivered a hard swing, shooting the ball into the air and past Kumon’s ear.

“A hit!” Sakuya was the one to shout, his hands cupped around his mouth. Upon hearing a confirmation, Kumon spun around and raced to grab the ball, his arm stuck out in front of him and curved like a hook.

Tsuzuru, who was waiting behind Azami for a chance to use the bat, yelled, “run, run!” at the top of his lungs, a grin on his face. His complaints from a few hours ago were forgotten in the frenzy.

Rushed steps could be heard from behind him, and it took all his will power to keep himself from turning around and watching, instead freezing his gaze on the ground in front of him and speeding up the pace. He was almost there, just a few more paces, just two more strides, _legs don’t fail me now!_ – “Amazing, Azami-kun!”

Kumon skidded to a halt at Izumi’s voice, nearly stumbling over at the dust he kicked up around him. Blood was still flowing in his ears, his hand was still outstretched, but he didn’t bother to move any longer. The praise stood as proof of his loss, but even so, he wasn’t upset about it. If anything, he was happy, his lips curving upwards. _I got to play baseball again,_ he thought. _I played baseball and I’m not sick._

“Hmph. After all that whining. ‘ _I only play soccer_ ,’” Sakyo mocked without edge. Actors broke out into conversation left and right, most of them directed towards Azami’s win, but Kumon didn’t join them, instead opting to fall to his knees and stare at the white painted lines in front of him. _I did it._

_And I wasn’t alone when it happened, either._

Nothing could go wrong; Kumon was sure of it. He was happy, overwhelmingly so, and not a thing could bring him down.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Everything had gone wrong, but all Kumon could do was glare at his wall, his body frozen in place. Sounds came from every corner of his room, some shouting, some whispering, some taunting, and none of them belonged to his roommate. How could they, when Misumi had explicitly told him he’d be gone triangle hunting till late? _But if that’s the case, then why are they so clear? Why are they so loud?_

“ _A fever again?_ ” One of them said, and even though his question was genuine enough, the tone wasn’t. It seethed with malice, like it already knew the answer but wanted to ask just for the fun of it.

“ _More like he’s skipping,_ ” another sneered. If Kumon could see the speaker’s face, he was certain that he’d see curled lips and angry eyes.

This time, the voice was quite obviously a girl, morphing to take the tone of his ex-club’s student manager. “ _Should I take him off the roster, coach?”_ She didn’t sound mean when she said it, more like she was just curious, but all he could see was still bitterness, lacing with her words and making them carry a heavy tone, like he was a burden.

There was another voice, and another, and then pretty soon the words themselves were inaudible, only coming up as irate white noise. Kumon slammed his hands over his ears, trying to shut them up, but no matter what he did, they just wouldn’t _leave him alone_.

“Go away,” he muttered, twisting and turning until his blanket was bunched into a pile at his side. “Leave me alone. I’m sorry, please just stop talking!” He probably sounded crazy, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care among the screeching.

The sound only got louder when he tried to push it away, growing stronger and stronger until it overpowered everything else. _It’s not real,_ he repeated to himself, shoving his arms underneath his pillow in search of something cold. _They’re just my imagination, they aren’t real._

But they were real. They were more real than anything else in his life, even him, and Kumon ignored their cries of displeasure. He was ignorant, so ignorant, and now all he could do was mourn the loss of his friends.

_No._ He squeezed his eyes shut. _We aren’t friends._

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“Hey, did you hear talking last night?”

Kumon’s blood ran cold but that didn’t stop him from craning his neck to look back at Azami, who had settled into place by his side, apple in hand. He didn’t look annoyed or frustrated, more interested than anything else, but the purple-haired boy still shrunk into his seat regardless, casting his gaze back to the plate that Omi had put in front of him a few minutes ago.

_He’ll think I’m insane if I tell him._ So, he didn’t, instead opting for confusion. “What’s last night?” _Too much confusion, too much confusion!_ His brain wasn’t catching up with his mouth, thoughts running a mile a minute, and all he could do was sit there, foot tapping on the ground and gaze flicking from side to side in a desperate attempt to avoid eye contact.

From the corner of his eye, he could see the odd look Azami gave him, face twisted up in bewilderment, and then suddenly his bafflement gave way for a smile, quiet chuckles leaving his mouth in spurts. “You’re so weird, Kumon,” he said, but he didn’t say it in a negative way, like most people would. His eyes were lit up in a way Kumon had never seen before and his hand covered his lips in a failed attempt to stop his laughter.

Kumon jumped into action immediately, throwing his chin onto his hand. “Hey! I’m just tired,” he said, thankful for the piercing look to be taken off him.

“Yeah, yeah,” Azami waved his hand, the smirk still not having left his face. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“Alright, I will!” Kumon said intelligently, crossing his arms and feigning irritation. His smile betrayed him, however, sending a crack down his carefully crafted mask’s center.

Azami was silent for a moment, eyeing him, and then he asked, “but seriously, did you hear voices?”

“No!” He said immediately, grin faltering. “No, I didn’t. Why?” The makeup artist didn’t seem like he believed him, not with the way his eyes dulled, but he nodded anyways, taking another bite of his breakfast.

“Maybe I was just hearing things then,” he relented, head tilted. “I’ll ask around.”

_Please don’t._ Kumon cringed at the idea of being found out, but even so, that wasn’t enough to slow his heart or to freeze his ears. Azami had laughed not at him, but with him, and it was all because of Kumon.

_He_ made him laugh. That thought made his smile become a little less forced than before. (And caused his hand to shake a teensy bit more.)

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Kumon knew all about crushes. How could he not, when it was all Muku talked about whenever he visited for holidays? Every Christmas and Thanksgiving, without fail, the pink-haired boy walked into his house equipped with at least three new shoujo manga, a dating magazine, and a romance anime. He spent dinners at the kids table, talking all about princes, princesses, and wedding flowers made of glistening gold.

At the time, he hadn’t understood a word he said. Despite how charismatic he seemed, if there was one thing he didn’t understand in the slightest, it was romance. _How does that even work?_ He wondered one night while he watched his fan spin around. _Blushy faces and perfect kisses? It sounds so weird, I can’t imagine any of that stuff happening in real life._

Now, Kumon stared up at his fan and thought about kisses for a totally different reason, one that was so clear it hurt. _Are Azami’s lips as soft as they look?_ He thought before he could stop himself, completely zoned out. _If he touched my shoulder, could he hear how loud my heart is?_

It felt like he was just going around in circles, but he barely noticed, too entranced by the idea of Azami putting a hand on his. His headspace was occupied, too crowded to think about the most pressing issue in all of this; they were both boys.

_But does it even matter?_ Kumon asked himself, spinning over in bed. _Nobody would care if I was gay, right?_ The answer he came up for that question was no, they wouldn’t, because after all, Mankai accepted him for everything else. What would attraction change in any of that?

With that, he pushed the worry to the back of his mind and focused instead on shadowy nights and candlelit dates, too far gone to think very hard about anything else.

Yeah, Kumon knew all about crushes.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

With Tenma gone for a movie shoot, the troupe had fallen into chaos. Switching leaders everyday was a good idea up until they realized that nobody had any qualities that made them a good leader; from then on, it was utter desperation that kept them hanging on.

That was why Kumon decided to spend his late night in the courtyard, swinging a baseball bat and trying to focus on everything _but_ the upcoming show. All was silent, not a sign of life being heard across the dorms. Stars glistened overhead, orange leaves fell to the ground in a peaceful manner, and finally, _finally_ , his pulse wasn’t on overdrive.

Until a rustle in the bushes proved that all was not, in fact, silent, for Yuki was making his way across the sidewalk, day clothes still twirling in the wind. “–Huh? Yuki? What are you doing?” At the sound of his voice, the green-haired boy swerved around to face him, eyes narrowed and mouth drawn into a tight line.

“What are _you_ doing?” He shot back defensively, leaning forward with his hands on his hips. _I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that,_ Kumon admitted mentally, cringing.

He pointed at his bat awkwardly. “This.” With Yuki, less words were best.

“A baseball bat?” Yuki said, still not looking the slightest bit understanding.

“Yup! I haven’t practiced my swings in a while,” Kumon shrugged, tossing the bat up in the air (or as much as he could with how heavy it was) and catching it in his hand.

His troupe mate looked back and forth between both the bat and Kumon and then asked, “why would you practice your swings this late?”

Kumon shrugged. “I kinda couldn’t sleep because I was thinking about acting.” _And Azami._ “Practicing my swings clears my mind.”

“Is that so,” Yuki said rather than asked.

“You should try too! Here!” Kumon tried to reach the bat over to his friend, but Yuki just took another step back, face twisting into disgust as he looked at the dirty handle.

“No.”

“Come on, just give it a go!” He insisted, shoving the object into Yuki’s hand and trying for his best puppy dog face.

“Look,” Yuki grunted, holding the bat away from his body in a loose grip, “I said no–“

“See, you hold it like this!” Kumon moved behind his friend and grabbed his elbows, trying to bend them in the way he’d usually have his while batting. It was the closest he’d ever been to Yuki, and if he were to be honest, it was a shock that he hadn’t been kicked to the ground already. “Now swing as hard as you can.”

When Yuki sighed, he exhaled the sweet smell of strawberries. _That isn’t a surprise,_ Kumon half-joked to himself, all the while stepping away. “You aren’t listening, are you?”

“Hurry up!” He begged in response, clasping his hands together in a mock-prayer.

“I get it!” Yuki rolled his eyes and then swung his arms cleanly, sending the bat twirling from one shoulder to the other.

Kumon’s jaw dropped. _Why wasn’t he playing with us when we played baseball if he’s this good?_ “Woah! A good sharp swing!”

“That compliment doesn’t make me happy,” Yuki frowned without any edge, unblinking. Besides his sour attitude, though, Kumon could see how his shoulders dropped and his face relaxed. _Good._

“You should keep swinging like that!” He said, “It’ll make you feel better!”

Yuki sent him a look and then shook his head. “I’ve had enough. I’m tired.”

“Eh?” Kumon yipped, just barely managing to catch the bat his troupe mate threw across the courtyard. The handle was warm, standing as a direct contrast to the cold air that stuck to his skin and sent goosebumps up his arms, despite it only being September.

“You said you couldn’t sleep, right?”

“Ah, yeah. I was thinking, like, I’m not moving forward at all,” he confessed, scratching his neck. “I don’t feel like I’m improving.” Yuki’s gaze was cold as they made eye contact, but surprisingly enough, there was no sign of intimidation in his posture. He looked genuinely curious about what his problem was; it was flattering in an off-putting kind of way. “Tenma-san hasn’t been around, so the atmosphere during practice is a little different.

“I don’t know if we’re gonna be okay like this– I get worried, and I start sweating a little… That’s how it feels.” He felt weird confiding in such a daunting person, regardless of how young the boy actually was, but somehow it just felt right. Yuki had this kind of air around him that made Kumon feel like he wasn’t going to be judged.

Yuki stared at him for a moment and then his frown deepened. “I know that.”

“With baseball, we can focus practice on one thing, like batting, catching, or pitching, but we can’t do that with acting.” He took a deep breath and then continued on, “I want to get good at something, even if it’s just one thing, so I can surprise Tenma-san.”

“Just one…” Yuki trailed off, one eyebrow raised. “That’s right, just one is enough. I was putting too much pressure on myself, thinking we had to be completely different.” Kumon was just becoming increasingly confused with every phrase. _What on earth is he talking about?_ Still, he didn’t dare interrupt him. “Those practice swings might have helped.”

“Really?” Kumon gasped, but Yuki was already gone, speeding away to his dorm like those superhero he used to read comics about.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Kumon wasn’t sure how exactly he got into this situation. One second he had been sitting in his dorm, reading over a script and rehearsing his lines, and the next he was walking side by side with Azami in a semi-popular, crowded mall. It really was terrifying how life could take him so off guard.

Azami, on the other hand, seemed completely oblivious to his thrumming heart, going from shop to shop in a state of ecstasy, makeup bags weighing down both his arms. He was the most energetic Kumon had ever seen him, chattering on about brand after brand of mascara and ranting about the most effective hair curlers. If Kumon could see anything past that glittering smile of his, he swore he would have been getting a full-fledged beauty school education. “This isn’t a very great store,” he was saying as he pointed towards some brightly lit, crowded store, eyes shimmering. “They sell a lot of knock-off brands and their own brand is caky. It’s just gross.”

Kumon tried his best to look as interested in the topic as possible, nodding and smiling along. Every now and then he’d ask questions that he didn’t care to know the answer to, and whenever he did, Azami’s head would whip around and he’d smile bigger than he ever had. He opened his mouth to say something, probably a compliment or another pointless inquiry, but Azami beat him to it, eyes narrowed.

“Are you even listening to me?” He asked, mouth pulled into a tight frown. “Because if you aren’t interested, then you should just say so. Don’t hold yourself back.”

It took a moment for Kumon to process the information, but the moment he did, his mind sprang into action. _What? How did he know? Ah, that isn’t the problem! He’s completely misunderstood!_ “No!” He yelped, bending his elbows so the bags around his arm wouldn’t hit him. “No, no, it isn’t that.”

“Are you sure? I don’t like liars,” Azami said, still looking at him with that suspicious gaze. The aura around him had completely changed, going from warm to cold quicker than the Mankai dorm’s AC worked. “And I don’t like when you’re all doormat-y, either. It’s annoying.” Despite how insulting his words sounded at first, there was a certain kind of worry beneath the harsh layers.

“I’m sure,” Kumon promised, pointedly ignoring the last point. “It’s nice to hear you so energized for once!” He just barely managed to see a tinge of pink on his cheeks before Azami twisted around and huffed, continuing down the aisle.

“Yeah, well, it’s just because shitty Sakyo isn’t here to ruin the mood. It has nothing to do with you, ya know?” Azami replied coolly, but Kumon couldn’t miss the way his voice shook with every word.

“I know!” Kumon said, smiling ear to ear. If there was anything he could never get enough of, it was Azami’s shyness. Despite being the son of a mafia boss, he was awfully easy to fluster. (Not that Kumon wasn’t, as well, though.)

They were silent for a second, simply listening to the sounds of people who came and went down the hall, and then Azami said in a quiet voice, “thank you for carrying my stuff, too, I guess.”

Kumon didn’t say anything to that, just nodded and pulled yet another jacket off the hanger, holding it up to his chest experimentally. _This is nice._

He wanted to hold onto that moment in the mall forever, all the way until the day he died.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

_No._ “Shake up your motivation!” _This can’t be happening._ “We’re aiming for the Koshien.” _Not right now, not today, not with them watching._

All Kumon could do was grunt in exhaustion at Tenma’s exclamation, tongue caught in the back of his throat. With sweaty palms and stinging eyes, all he could do was stand there dumbly in front of everyone and pray nobody noticed his suffering.

“Oi?” Tenma’s eyebrows furrowed in concern, but even then, the movement was careful, like he was still trying to appeal to their audience no matter what the situation. Silently, Kumon thanked him for not making a big deal about it, and especially not in front of so many people.

He attempted to form words, but they came out cracked and dry rather than proud and strong like his troupe mate’s did, leaving him to wonder what he did wrong. _Is it my stance? Poise? Maybe I don’t practice enough._ And then there was that voice that was quieter than the rest but more powerful than all of them combined; _maybe I was just born a failure._

Tenma once again proved himself to be the professional there, or the knight in shining armor, if you will. “Heat stroke, huh? Sit down and rest somewhere.” He said the lines so smoothly, like he had practiced them a thousand times over, and it made Kumon’s heart twist bitterly in a less than pleasant way. Being jealous of such a thing was so cruel, Juza would never be so careless as to hate upon those better than him, but he couldn’t _help_ the way his blood boiled, _could he_?

“Y-yes,” Kumon muttered, all the while cursing the gods for making him stutter. The people surrounding them were beginning to blur together, making them look like one big person instead of a dozen smiling faces. _No. Not here._ With that promise to himself, he forced himself to just _breathe_ , albeit a bit shakily.

He didn’t even notice Izumi was in front of him until she was clapping his hands together and towering over him. “Kumon-kun, are you okay?” She asked. The worry lacing around each syllable made him feel undoubtedly guilty; everybody else was having fun, so who was he to ruin the mood?

“I’m sorry,” he tried to speak as earnestly as possible, but it fell flat.

“No, it’s your first time so don’t worry about it,” Izumi shook her head and moved her hands so she could plant them on her hips. “Let’s just finish up early.”

As if he’d been given a cue, Tenma spun around and bowed to the crowd, face lit up. “Mankai Company Summer Troupe’s fourth performance, ‘ _First Crush Baseball_.’ Please take a look!” His voice projected all around the street, which only furthered how perfect he seemed to be at what was supposed to be _their_ job.

Applause broke out among the viewers, but Kumon just stumbled away blindly, breath coming out in spurts. Distantly, he heard the voice of Kazunari, and then a few others that he didn’t recognize, but all he did was wave to them, not uttering another word. His face was heating up and god, if he didn’t already have a fever, he most certainly would soon.

Tenma hung around for a few minutes, signing autographs and such, before making his way back to the rest of the troupe, a frown replacing his usual cocky smirk. “Oi, are you alright?” Kumon jumped, shocked by how loud his voice was in his ear, but held himself back from making an embarrassingly dumb noise.

“Uh, yeah. I’m doing fine,” he lied through his teeth, shoe digging into the dirt on the ground. By the look of concern on the celebrity’s face, he guessed it didn’t come out the way he wanted it to. _Damn it, I’m usually better than this!_ (But was he, honestly and truly? Judging by his time in the baseball club, it was doubtful.)

“Are you feeling sick?” Yuki continued interrogating him where the leader had left off, his arms crossed and his head held high.

_Yes._ “No, I just got kind of nervous. I’m sorry, everyone!” He forced himself to laugh, rubbing the back of his neck in a way that he hoped looked sheepish.

“It’s fine, of course you’d get nervous!” His saving grace, Kazunari, popped in, hands held up by his shoulders like he was face to face with cops. “We’re all like that at first.”

“You’ll be fine, you’ll be fine!” Misumi agreed cheerfully, hands shoved into his pockets and feet twisted into the shape of a triangle. _Is that on purpose?_ Kumon couldn’t help but wonder amidst his running thoughts.

“Just as I thought, I…” Kumon trailed off, not feeling entirely up to finishing his sentence. What would he say, anyways? _Just as I thought, I’m weak? I’m not good enough? What?_

Muku gave him a look of sympathy that he both loved and despised. “Kyu-chan,” he mumbled, fingers locked and hitting against his thigh.

Izumi, seemingly oblivious to the extent of his feelings, – thank the gods – nodded, hopping right back to business again. “Let’s head back for today.” Kazunari agreed with some kind of slang that Kumon couldn’t quite make out, his ears already having begun to ring like a whistle.

As the troupe gathered their things, Muku leaned over to Kumon and asked, “are you sure you’re doing alright?”

“I’m fine, I promise!” Kumon giggled, but even he had the decency to cringe at how fake it sounded. “Oh, wait, I need to stop by somewhere!” _No he didn’t._ “I’ll see you later then!” _Stop!_

Muku tried to speak but Kumon blocked out his voice, instead opting to pull his backpack onto his shoulder and race down the street, purposefully going the opposite way of the dorms. Thankfully, he couldn’t imagine anybody trying to find him, not when his excuse was perfectly reasonable.

With shaking knees and a blurry gaze, he stumbled around the corner, unbeknownst of where his legs would take him. All throughout his mind, voices screamed profanities, none of them sounding like his own.

“ _If he’s not going to play in games, he may as well quit,_ ” one of them was scoffing, and although Kumon couldn’t see a face, he could imagine the way the boy’s eyes rolled as he spoke.

In the back of his mind, he could hear his doctor’s voice, too, “ _It’s likely a psychological issue.”_ The man made him sound insane with the way he said the words, spitting them out carefully like venom. “ _I don’t think there’s anything we can do here. You’re best off taking a break from club activities for a while.”_

“ _You’re too emotionally frail,_ ” it was his baseball coach now, shouting in his ear, “ _I had high hopes for you. Running away won’t fix your problem, you know?”_

Pretty soon, all of the voices were blending together like a chaotic symphony, overwhelming Kumon and making his heart pound. _I think I really might fail again,_ he couldn’t help but think, squeezing his eyes shut. _Why am I the only one who’s no good? Why can’t I do what everyone else can do?_

He was falling behind his peers. The rest of the Summer Troupe was nearing last base while he was still at first, struggling to see beyond his own useless hands. _Why am I so weak?_

“Hey,” for once, one of the voices came from outside of his own head, loud and clear. Kumon jumped at how familiar it was, but regretted it almost immediately with the way his head pounded from the sudden impact. Standing before him was the boy he’d tried so hard to forget, watching him like a zoo exhibit. “Come here for a sec.”

Against his own will, Kumon took a few steps closer to him, afraid of what would happen if he didn’t. _How did my life get to this?_ “You were doing a baseball act or something back there, weren’t you?”

He swallowed down the lump in his throat but it didn’t do anything to calm his nerves. “Ah, yeah,” he mumbled, tapping his index fingers together. “I’m apart of a theater troupe now– “

“Are you kidding me? A theater troupe? An act?” Yamaguchi growled, hands curled into fists. In his eyes shined the same anger Kumon often saw him wearing, and instinctively, the purple-haired boy leaned backwards. “ _’Let’s aim for Koshien’_? We’re playing baseball seriously here–we’re _actually_ aiming for Koshien. Are you making fun of us!?”

_No!_ Kumon wanted to say, but when he opened his mouth, nothing came out but an awkward grumble. Did he even have the right to talk to Yamaguchi, after all those months of zero communication? _This is selfish,_ he realized with wide eyes. _I’m being selfish, acting like I have the right to say such things._

“Say something!” Kumon’s heart sank even farther down, all the way until it hit the ground and shattered into a million pieces. He should run, it would be for the best, but his feet stayed stubbornly planted on the ground.

Before Kumon could say anything, maybe an apology, there was a flash of red. As quick as lightning, Azami moved to grip Yamaguchi’s arm, twisting it with a harsh force that couldn’t possibly be comfortable. “What the hell are you doing?” He asked, squeezing his hands around the boy’s skin.

Yamaguchi yelped in pain and tried to get away, but his struggling was to no avail. Finally, _finally_ , Kumon got the courage to speak. (Or, rather, yell.) “Azami, no! Not his arm, he plays baseball!” _No, no!_ He couldn’t get others involved, especially not someone like Azami. It would be selfish of him.

“He came at you first,” he grunted, still not pulling away. His eyes stayed locked on Kumon’s, not even flicking over to look at the flailing boy by his side.

“Still, no,” Kumon said, all the while swaying on his feet. Azami continued staring for a second and then gave up, letting go of his arm.

Yamaguchi twisted around and bolted away quicker than he’d shown up, shoes kicking up rocks as he ran.

“…He ran away.” Azami sounded almost disappointed, as if he wanted to torture him further.

Kumon sighed and pulled his arms up to his chest protectively. The voices in his head had momentarily halted, being replaced by concerned blabber and impolite swearing. “Thanks, Azami,” he said despite not feeling grateful for the interruption at all. After all, he deserved whatever punishment he had coming for him.

“Why are you getting picked on?” Azami demanded, eyes narrowed. “You’ve got a brother with a scary face. With his help you’d be done with this in no time.”

Kumon hesitated for a moment and then spoke again, directing his gaze anywhere but to the boy in front of him. “I don’t want to uncool in front of nii-chan.”

Upon hearing Azami’s sigh, Kumon turned back to look at him again. “Well, I guess we all have people like that.”

Thankful for the change of topic, he piped up, “you have someone like that too, Azami? Someone you don’t want to see you looking uncool?”

“…Maybe so,” Azami shrugged. “You’re heading back to the dorms, right? I’m gonna leave you behind. Can’t help if someone picks a fight with you.” And with that, he turned around and began making his way back to Mankai, just as he said he would.

Kumon sprung into action, following behind him in a desperate attempt to not get left behind. “Ah, wait up!” Azami said nothing to that but did slow down a bit, allowing Kumon to catch up and fall in beside him. They were quiet for a while, and for once, Kumon didn’t search for something jolly to change the subject with.

Azami was quite obviously sneaking looks at him every now and then, his eyes glimmering with what could only be curiosity. Sighing, Kumon gave in and explained, “You know, nii-chan was always helping me out lots and lots ever since I was little. Nii-chan always put me before himself, he was always worried about me.”

Azami’s frown eased up. “Even though he looks like that,” he thought aloud, looking straight ahead.

“Nii-chan is really kind. That’s why I want to prove to him that he doesn’t have to worry about me–that I’m alright on my own–by pulling through this performance.” Upon finishing his explanation, Azami’s face softened into an expression Kumon couldn’t quite understand. His scowl was back up and plastered across his face like a mask, but even it seemed more worried than angry.

He breathed, “that so?”

Kumon nodded and looked down at the ground in front of him. “I need to pull through this. I have to.”

_Because it would be selfish not to, since nii-chan has been put through so much since my arrival._

Kumon left that part unsaid, but Azami’s eyebrows furrowed like he heard it anyway.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

 _This is it. Everyone is going to know how useless I am, how hopeless I really am._ Staring down at the blinking thermometer, all Kumon could do was gasp for air. Why did he ever think he could fit in with the rest of them, anyways? Juza warned him that this was bound to happen, and he never listened, not even once. _This is my fault._

Muku had made him promise to tell him if he got a fever, but now that it was actually happening, he wasn’t so sure it would be a good idea. His forehead wasn’t even _that_ hot; telling his cousin would only lead to unnecessary panic, and that would be selfish. So, he wouldn’t tell him.

He wouldn’t tell anyone, because that was the right thing to do.

The door creaked open and as quickly as he could, he shoved the thermometer under his pillow in an attempt to hide any evidence. “How is it?” Misumi asked, shutting the door behind him with his foot. Even with the mellow topic, his voice was as playful as ever, ringing across their dorm room like a song.

“Looks like I don’t have a fever,” he lied somewhat easily, twisting his mouth into a pained smile. _Please don’t ask to see the thermometer, please don’t ask to see the thermometer, please don’t_ –

Misumi jumped onto the bed like an overexcited child and knocked their foreheads together, smile never leaving his face. “Forehead bump!”

Shocked by the pain, Kumon flinched backwards, bringing a hand up to his own boiling head. “Ow,” he mumbled, rubbing the spot his roommate hit.

“Don’t lie, your forehead is hot,” Misumi stated, leaning backwards on his hands. His carefree expression didn’t disappear, but his eyes did flash with a little more concern than they had earlier. _Damn it._

Kumon sighed, crumpling under his blankets and kicking his ankles together. “Sumi-san, I’m begging you, please don’t tell them…”

Misumi studied his face for a second, carefully picking apart his motives like a puzzle, and then nodded slowly. “Got it. I won’t tell.”

“Thank goodness!” He praised, falling back onto his pillow.

“But I will get Muku,” Misumi added suddenly, causing Kumon’s momentary relief to fall apart in seconds. “You promised him, right?”

Kumon stared down at his clenched fist, thoughts more silent than they ever had been before. “…Yeah.”

_But I promised Yamaguchi, too, and look where that ended up?_

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

As promised, Misumi sent Muku into the dorm a few hours later, skipping out like he was just going to hunt triangles. “Kyu-chan, so you really did have a fever. You should’ve told me earlier!” The pink-haired boy was the epitome of worry when he walked in, lips twisted into a tight line and eyes glazed over.

“It’s fine,” Kumon reassured him with a smile that he was sure didn’t quite reach his eyes. “This happens all the time, and it isn’t that bad!”

“Still let’s tell Director and Ju-chan about your fever,” Muku said, taking out a bowl of soup from his bag. _Did he make that for me?_ Kumon thought, swallowing nervously as he spun a spoon around the food.

“No!” Kumon yelped, shaking his head but not looking up.

Muku sighed, “But at this rate…”

Kumon worried at his bottom lip, refusing to make eye contact while he murmured, “am I going to cause everyone trouble again?”

“Kyu-chan…” For a while after that, the only sound in his dorm room was the buzzing of the fan that sat on his bedside table, sending a chill through the air and making the bottom of his shirt twirl around like ribbon. Rays of sunlight shined onto the floor through triangle curtains, coating the ground with a golden glow, and Kumon decided to focus on only that, nothing else.

“Am I going to fail this time, too? Is it impossible for me to accomplish anything?” Bitter questions began spilling out of Kumon’s mouth one by one, dripping onto his hands and coating his skin with nothing but sticky guilt. “Why am I the only one who’s this week? I want to work harder, but I… Why? I want to act with everyone, I want to stand on stage with you, I want to be stronger.”

Talking so much was making him drowsy; even as he spoke, Kumon could feel himself drifting off, soup long forgotten. “Kyu-chan, it’ll be fine. It’ll work out this time. I’ll definitely save you.” _Save me from what?_ He wondered absently, sinking into his sheets. _The situation I’m in, or myself?_

Misumi spoke up–when did he get back?–with a cheerful tone that rivaled the voices in Kumon’s own head, “Muku is right. Kumon, you’re doing your best. God Triangle-kun is watching; that’s why you’ll be fine!”

Kumon shoved a hand over his face and mumbled, “thank you,” into his palm.

Being grateful for their comfort was one thing, but believing it himself was another.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

His sleep only stayed relaxing for a good thirty minutes; immediately after 4:31 hit, his dreams were twisted from mall dates and makeup brands to baseball bats and looks of shame. _“It’s your fault, because you got a fever and didn’t play!” A boy was telling him while they got changed in the locker room, his eyes full of nothing but unadulterated hatred._

_“Why do you think we’ve been practicing all this time?” The boy from Kumon’s other side asked, voice loud and hands resting on the bench. “Do you realize that this was our last middle school game?” His voice was similar to poison, hissing out words in a way that a venomous snake likely would._

_“This is it for us! This is the end!” The first boy added, his voice echoing around the room and sounding louder than he was actually talking. “But you–you ruined everything, every practice up until now!”_

_Kumon stumbled backwards until his heels hit the wall and his back bumped against a water fountain, bringing his hands up as if to protect his head from incoming punches. “I’m sorry,” he cried, tears falling down his chin. “I’m sorry.” He repeated the words like a mantra and yet they still didn’t sound right, they still didn’t sound authentic, so he continued shouting them out until they were perfect. How could he ever make it up to them? They were right, he did ruin everything._

_One of the boys rolled his eyes. “You probably just ditched us,” he said over his wails, all the while pulling on his jacket. “It would’ve been better if you never joined to begin with.” The other nodded in agreement, eyes narrowed and burning a deep red._

Kumon woke up, sure he did, but his scenery didn’t. Through his sleepy haze, he could still see the furrowed eyebrows, the running mouths, the sweat-soaked jerseys. If he focused hard enough, he could even spot his coach standing at the doorway with a clipboard, studying him like a confusing math equation. “I’m sorry, everyone!” He continued saying through puffs of air.

Misumi’s voice snapped him out of his stupor, quiet and full of concern. “Kumon?” He asked, standing up from his rocking chair and coming to stand beside him.

“Ah, I…” Kumon cut himself off. What would he say, anyways? _Sorry I was sleep talking? Sorry I thought you were my angry ex-teammates? No, he’d just sound insane._ A part of him was only grateful that Azami wasn’t there to see his freak out. If he did, Kumon would never let himself down about it.

Luckily, Misumi continued where he left off, his smile soft and delicate. “It’s okay, Kumon. We all know you’re working hard.” Kumon wanted to thank him for his kind words but was interrupted by a knock on the door, loud yet hesitant. “Yes?”

Muku’s voice could be heard from outside the door, but he sounded different, like he did when he recited lines or read manga panels aloud. “Hey, maybe we shouldn’t do this…”

“What are you saying?” It was Tenma now, sounding way more playful and teasing than he normally did.

Yuki was next, his voice accusing, “Come on, give up! You said you’d tell him for sure.”

“Yeah, totally. If you don’t do it now, you might never see him again!” Kazunari insisted. Compared to everyone else, he sounded at least semi-normal.

Muku sighed loudly. “Yes…” After a moment, he slammed the door open and strode in, the rest of the troupe falling in line after him. Just because of that, a red flag was instantly lifted in Kumon’s head. _What’s this about?_

“Ah, sorry for barging in! Do you remember us?” Tenma said, leaning forward and placing an index finger on his cheek like an anime girl would. _I would hope so._ If Kumon’s lips weren’t so dry and cracked from picking at them, he’d have probably cracked a grin at his own joke.

“We took Insta pics during the summer festival together, remember! Back then we were in our yukata, but–“

Yuki slapped a hand over Kazunari’s face and smirked in a way that Kumon thought he’d never see. “It’d be _so_ funny if you forgot about us though.”

“Don’t say that, Yukiko!” Tenma scolded, placing his hands on his hips. Now _that_ wasn’t too far off from how they usually were.

“Is this the etude from before?” Kumon asked, but to no avail, seeing as the rest of his friends just continued on with their act like he hadn’t spoken at all.

“Come on, Mukumi, just tell him,” Yuki said, beginning to sound impatient.

“Um, um,” Muku stuttered, tapping his fingers together. “I really, really couldn’t forget about you.” _Is this going where I think it is?_ What his cousin said next, however, was definitely not what he was expecting. “I couldn’t forget about you because you look exactly like my dead dog! Could I get another picture?”

Kumon blinked once, twice, and then burst into laughter, tearing up within seconds. He had to lean over and hold his stomach in order to contain his cackling, more because of surprise and pure adrenaline than anything else. “That’s where this was going? What the heck!”

Misumi laughed, too, albeit a bit more calmly. “We definitely weren’t expecting that!” He giggled, pointing at the rest of the summer troupe teasingly.

“Yeah!” He agreed.

Tenma paused for a second, the smile staying on his face the whole time, and then he dropped the act completely. “Kumon, we heard about your condition.”

Well _that_ sobered him up real quick. “I see…” Kumon trailed off, his nose twitching. “Sorry, I might cause you guys trouble, so I’ll– “

“Do you remember back at the hotel during our local performances when I told you about our debut performance?” The troupe leader cut off his sentence before he could finish it; his voice was overbearingly soft but still just as serious, making it clear that he meant strict business. _This is it,_ Kumon thought, squeezing his eyes shut, _this is where I’m fired._

“Eh?” Kumon tried his best to play dumb, as if he hadn’t been expecting it all along. Lying was bad, but in his kind of situation, it couldn’t possibly be detrimental. Things had already gone so downhill that one more thing wouldn’t hurt.

“Back then, I lied about one thing because I wanted to look cool,” Tenma continued. “I said the performance was a success ‘thanks to my flawless acting skills and leadership,’ but that’s just a lie.” _So I guess I’m not the only one who lies._ I was the one who made the biggest mistake.

“Because of a mistake I made when I was a child, I would get extremely nervous when I got on stage, and I couldn’t act at all,” he confessed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks to that, our dress rehearsal was a complete disaster.” For once, he sounded one-hundred-percent earnest, like he was just a normal teenage boy, not some perfect celebrity.

Yuki jabbed his stomach with an elbow. “You really were horribly useless.”

“Shut up,” Tenma grumbled without any real malice, eyeing his troupemate in a way that would be intimidating if his gaze wasn’t so soft. Kumon decided against pointing out the obvious usage of the word ‘were’ and not ‘are.’

“Tenma-san was? Really…?” He asked, eyes wide and fist knocking against the wood of his bedside table. It didn’t seem possible, not when he’d looked up to him for so long since joining.

“Is it that hard to believe?” Tenma asked, crossing his arms and directing his eyes back to Kumon. “When I stood on stage, my mind went blank, and I couldn’t remember my lines. ‘I really am going to fail again.’ I was overwhelmed with despair, but thanks to the people standing next to me right now, I managed to make my way through the performance. Because they were here, bit by bit, I could regain my confidence on the stage.”

“We were really surprised when it happened, but it made us think, we need to work harder too,” Muku said, a gentle, almost nostalgic smile spread across his face as he spoke.

Kazunari added, “we worked even harder because we wanted to support Tenten!”

“Yup, yup, that’s why our success was thanks to Tenma,” Misumi agreed, wrinkles forming under his eyes as a result of his beaming grin.

“Thanks to Tenma’s uselessness,” Yuki nodded in agreement, expression schooled into a completely neutral expression if you don’t count the way half of his lips curved just the slightest bit upwards.

Tenma twirled around to look at him once again, eyes wide. “Oi, who was the one with a creative slump during our second performance?” He demanded, leaning forward.

Yuki pulled his chin up so their faces were only inches apart, a real smirk now replacing his stone-cold face. “That was so long ago, I’d almost forgotten about it.”

As if on cue, Tenma’s face went unbelievably red, his once stern expression replaced by pure fluster. “Hey, you– “

Kazunari turned over to Kumon as the two argued. “During our second performance, Yukki had a really tough time juggling the demands of making costumes and playing the lead role,” he explained in detail, hands moving around.

“He recovered thanks to Kazu!” Misumi piped up, smiling appreciatively at said graphic designer.

Muku nodded in agreement. “The costumes you two designed together were really cute.”

“The cat costumes?” Kumon asked.

“Yup, yup!”

Tenma finally broke apart from Yuki, although his pinkened face stayed the same, so he could say, “Misumi was also in pretty bad condition when he played the lead for our third performance.”

“That’s when we went treasure hunting,” Muku added on, his head tilted to the left.

“Treasure hunting?” Kumon asked, puzzled.

“Everyone went looking for my treasure with me. Thanks to my treasure, I felt better, and I could do my best on stage!” Misumi chirped excitedly, hands balling into fists under his chin.

Tenma pointed directly at Kumon’s chest, one eyebrow raised. “That’s why it’s your turn now. If you get nervous, we’ll help you just like this, as many times as it takes. We’ll support you on stage, too, because you’re not standing out there alone.”

The blood in Kumon’s veins ran cold, although not in an unpleasant way. _So I’m not being kicked out?_ It was almost as if all the weight he’d been carrying was taken off him all at once, leaving him weightless and free.

“So let’s overcome it together. This time, for sure.” Tenma declared.

Kumon was silent for a moment, thinking it over, and then he relaxed, sitting up. “Yeah.. Yeah! I’ll pull through with everyone!”

_I can’t give up now. Not because it’ll be selfish to them, but because it’ll be selfish to me._

 _I’ll keep going, because that’s what_ I _want. Nothing else to it._

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“Kumon-kun, how is your fever?” Izumi came to sit down in the booth next to him, unblinking and looking more tired than she ever had before. Dark circles stuck out like a thumb, and her brown hair was very obviously unbrushed, sticking up in every direction known to man. _Did I really worry her that much?_

After a second of looking her messy appearance up and down, Kumon shrugged. “I’m fine. It’s not that bad, so I can go.”

Izumi tilted her head, lips twisted into a small frown. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” There was no point in hiding the truth of his condition any longer, not when everyone already knew about it, anyway. “I usually get a high fever, so this is pretty low.”

“If you think you’re pushing yourself too much, tell us immediately, okay?” Izumi said, holding out her pinky finger. Kumon took it in his own, shaking their hands together in a mock-promise.

“Got it.” He tried his best to cover up any lingering anxiety. If there was one thing he didn’t want, it was being pulled out of the show.

It seemed like Izumi was going to say something else, but before she could, there was a knock at the door. Hastily, she pulled her hand away and stood up. “Yes?”

Banri waltzed into the room and was soon followed by the rest of the autumn troupe. “Hey,” he greeted, hands in his pockets and face showcasing a casual smile.

“Good luck!” Taichi said, his eyes bright. Kumon noticed absently that he was twirling his finger around in circles at his side, probably without even noticing he was doing it.

Omi held up a pan of chocolate chip cookies. “I baked you guys some cookies,” he said, scanning the actors with a happy gaze.

“Yay!” Kumon cheered, pumping his fist in the air.

Misumi leaned over the pan and then gasped, eyes lighting up. “Triangle cookies!”

Juza stepped over to stand beside Kumon, looking down at him with an off expression. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine. My fever is lower than usual.”

“I see…”

Sakyo craned his neck to look at something behind him. “You come in too.”

“Oh, you’re here too, Azami.” At the sound of the boy’s name, Kumon whipped his head around. Low and behold, there was Azami, stepping around the autumn troupe members to get a good look at the rest of them. Like usual, he was more beautiful than anyone Kumon had ever met; for a moment, it felt as if he’d seen him for the first time all over again.

Azami glared at them for a second and then grumbled, “what the hell’s up with your faces?”

“Hah?” Yuki grunted, finally turning his chair away from the mirror to get a good look at their visitors. His face was screwed up angrily, and for a second, Kumon was worried there was about to be an argument.

“You’re messing with me!” Azami declared, walking even farther into the room. “Take your faces off, now!”

“Our faces?” Muku repeated back to him, sounding utterly flabbergasted.

Kazunari furrowed his eyebrows. “Do you mean our makeup?”

“Hurry up! That half-assed job is hurting my eyes.”

“Eh? Eh?” Kumon breathed, looking back and forth between his fellow troupemates and then back to the boy he loved so dearly. _What…?_

“I-I guess we should take our makeup off?” Muku stuttered, immediately moving to grab a makeup wipe and scrub it over his foundation.

Tenma seemed to be taking the same aggressive stance as Yuki, but he began taking his makeup off nonetheless. “What’s with this guy…” he mumbled.

From then on, Azami started pulling out product after product, holding them up to each actor’s face and applying them to their skin. Yuki was the current victim, who was coughing and squirming up a storm. “It’s cleansing cream. Stay still,” Azami hounded him.

“Everyone’s faces are completely white!” Taichi said. He had moved to sit on one of the couches in the dressing room, observing the scene from a safe distance. _That’s probably for the best,_ Kumon smiled guiltily as he watched Azami do his work.

“There was a movie with yokai like that,” Banri added, sounding even more shocked than his friend.

“I told you, don’t move,” Azami said to a still-struggling Yuki, not pulling his hands away for a second.

“Who the hell do you think you are– “ Suddenly, Yuki halted in his complaints, his gaze having been redirected to the thick bag of supplies next to Azami. “Are all those tools yours?”

“Yeah,” Azami replied.

“Wow, you have so many brushes,” Muku pointed out, leaning over to get a better look.

“You’re like a pro,” Kumon chimed in, even if it was just to add on. He wanted Azami’s attention to be on him, even for just a second.

Unfortunately for him, Azami didn’t look away from his current subject, although his mouth did twitch upon hearing Kumon speak, just by a little. “I’m glad I brought them just in case,” he shrugged, glancing down at said brushes momentarily. “All of you thinking a quick job will cut it. If you’re going to stand on stage, you need to put on stage makeup.”

_And I’m glad they brought you._ The thought flew across his mind before he could even think to smother it down with some other, more reasonable statement, but there was no point in hiding it once it was already out in the open.

He _was_ happy Azami showed up; it was as simple as that.

_(And as complicated as that, too.)_

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

After the show, it was just Kumon’s pure, joyful luck that he ran straight into Azami.

“Hah? Idiot. No way!” He was talking on the phone, laughing and giggling into the microphone like a high school girl.

“Ah, Azam– “ he started but cut himself off just as quickly.

“Yup, I’m fine for now. Well, if they chase me out, I’ll probably go to your place,” Azami nodded a few times and then said, “Yup. See you later.” With that, he pulled the phone away and hung up, looking more relaxed than he had in awhile.

“Talking to a friend?” Kumon tried his best to ignore the way his gut twisted around nervously at the thought. _Does he think of me with that much respect?_ He wondered, or rather, hoped.

“Yeah. Do you need something?” Azami asked as he slipped the phone back into his jeans pocket.

Kumon shrugged. “Not really. I just spotted you,” he trailed off, grappling to find something to talk about, and then piped up, “hey, Azami, your makeup skills are amazing! When did you learn? Or did a friend teach you?”

“I taught myself,” Azami replied curtly, albeit with a bit of a smug smile.

“You got that good on your own? Wow!” Kumon yelped, clapping his hands together. “Yuki and Azuma-san were praising you, too. You can fight _and_ do makeup–that’s amazing!”

“…Not really,” Azami said.

“Is that going to be your career?”

“Nope,” he shot that thought down immediately.

“Eeh? _Why_? That’s such a waste. You could definitely become a pro, Azami!” He insisted, pushing himself up on his toes so he was almost nose-to-nose with him.

“I just can’t,” Azami sighed, glancing away. “That’s the kind of house I live in.”

“Eh? What do you mean house– “ Kumon’s chest seized up when he realized what he was saying. As quick as lightning, he tried to correct himself, heart pounding. “Ah, oh, I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have…” Instead of complaining, though, Azami just laughed, bringing a hand up to his face to hide the smile that had grown on his face.

“You really do act like a kid. I thought we were the same age when I first saw you,” he said, still giggling to himself like it was the funniest joke he’d ever heard, and all insults aside, Kumon couldn’t help but puff out his chest a little at the idea that _he_ did that. _He_ made him laugh like a high school girl. Beat that, ‘ _Azami’s friend_.’

“What! How do I act like a middle schooler!”

Azami sobered up just enough to say, “like that,” and upon seeing Kumon’s shocked face, fell right back into giggles once more. His laughter went on for what felt like forever, and then finally he managed to ask, “so how are you doing? Makeup can cover your face, but it’s not going to fix everything else.”

If it were possible, Kumon would have melted right there on the spot. “Ah, about that. There’s something that I’m a little worried about.”

Azami was quick to ask, “are you feeling sick?”

“No, my body’s fine. That’s not the problem. I just can’t pick up adlibs the way everyone else can, so sometimes I ruin the flow of the act.” Kumon explained, waving his hands around in an effort to show what he was saying, too.

“…It’s your first time doing theater, so of course there’s going to be a difference in experience,” Azami picked his words carefully.

“That’s true, but summer troupe plays are good _because_ of their adlibs. How do I put it…? It’s like the adlibs show what a great combination summer troupe is on stage. When I saw Summer troupe’s reruns of their debut performance, I was seriously amazed. It was riddled with adlibs!” Kumon himself could hear the way his voice was picking up in volume as he spoke, but he couldn’t bring it upon himself to quiet it down. “I need to get to that level.”

Azami nodded in understanding. “I see. Well, do your best.”

It was such a short sentence, so obviously simple, and yet Kumon’s face heated up regardless. “Yeah,” he stumbled over his words before turning around and beginning to walk out. “Well, I’ve gotta go. Bye!”

_He cared._

The beating in Kumon’s chest proved that he himself cared, too, although maybe for a totally different reason.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The first show went off with nearly no hitches.

So did the second, and then the third, and finally the fourth. Nothing much had gone wrong, other than a few mishaps.

Or at least, nothing much had gone wrong until _now_ , as he stood in a crowd of people and listened to their chatter. It felt like all they could talk about was adlibs; Tenma this, Muku that. And there he was, standing in the middle of it all, being the only one unable to utter even one singular improvised word.

_Why?_ He couldn’t help but feel like he was falling backwards again, being thrown straight back into the chaos and swallowed by his peer’s expectations.

He had to do something about this.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Izumi was looking over a checklist when Kumon pushed the doors to the dressing room open. “This side is good, and we have all these here too… Yup, I think we’re all set up for props. All that’s left is…”

“Director.”

“Hm?” Izumi twisted around to look at him, a proud smile on her face. “What’s wrong, Kumon-kun?”

“Um, what can I do to get better at adlibs?” He asked, tapping his hand against his thigh. _What if I can never get good?_ His mind was more overwhelming than the play at that point, running a thousand miles a minute.

“Adlibs?” Izumi repeated, putting a finger to her chin. “Hmm… Well, practicing etudes over and over again is pretty effective.”

“Practicing etudes…”

“But adlibs are like ornaments; you only need to use them when you’re relaxed and can handle them. Don’t worry about it too much.” She waved the question off. “You’ll be able to improvise more naturally when you get into your role better. You don’t need to sweat it right now!”

“But what if I disappoint the summer troupe’s fans who are looking forward to their adlibs? I might ruin the performance,” Kumon said, casting his gaze to the floor. He was heating up amidst the panic, he could feel it, and for a moment he considered turning around and running away so Izumi didn’t realize just how much it was troubling him. _This is selfish._

“That won’t happen,” she promised. “Remember how our guests today were rooting for you? They’ve accepted you as a member of summer troupe. Kumon-kun, you just have to do what you can with all your might.”

Kumon hesitated, so she continued, “if you’re worried, we can get everyone together and have them help out with etude practice?”

He choked on air at that. _No! Anything but that! I have to prove that I can do this myself._ Kumon stumbled backwards, back hitting the door. _Damn it._

“Kumon-kun!” Izumi grabbed his arm in alarm, eyes wide. All he could do was pant in response. “Your body temperature is,” she murmured to herself, raising another hand to check his forehead. “Your fever!”

_Please._

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Panic built up in Kumon’s chest, but unlike most of the time, there was no way to calm himself. All he could do was sit in his bed, drench himself in sweat, and choke out uneven breaths. _I should have known it would end like this,_ he thought, fisting his blankets. There was no way he could go on that stage, not after he’d failed so badly. _But I promised…_

Apparently, promises meant nothing in a world of the strong and weak.

“I’m gonna give you a new rag to put on your head,” Juza’s voice cut through Kumon’s train of thought, stopping the regret right where it started. He got up from where he’d been seated beside his brother to leave the room, but Kumon grabbed his wrist, effectively stopping him.

“Nii-chan,” he choked out. It was even harder to get the words out than it was last time he had a fever, not unlike how he felt during panic attacks. This was different, though. When he got sick, it was like physical evidence that what he felt wasn’t fake or fabricated; his anxieties were real, and in a way, that was more comforting than anything else. (Except maybe head pats from his brother.)

Juza glanced back at him, face unchanging other than his wide eyes. “What is it? Need something to drink?” Honestly, Kumon could probably go for some water, but that wasn’t what he _needed_.

“I’m sorry.” What he _needed_ was for this to be over. “I really should have listened to you. After all, I ended up causing everyone trouble. I haven’t changed at all,” the words were painful to get out, but he tried his best. The least he could do was apologize for what he’d done to everyone. _Banri should take my place; it would be better that way._

“Why am I so weak?” He asked, glancing down at his clenched fists. “Why can’t I be strong like you?” On earth, the world was split into two groups; the strong and the weak. Kumon was just unlucky.

“Kumon,” Juza started, but his younger brother cut him off.

“Even after the first day, I was worried things would turn out the same as before, that I would cause problems for people right when it mattered most. It really was… impossible for me.” His tongue was dry against the top of his mouth, and the feeling made him shudder. “A weak guy like me has no right to stand on a stage with someone as cool as you.”

Juza scanned his face for a second, took a deep breath, and then began to speak once more. “Listen, Kumon, you don’t need a right to stand on stage, you don’t need a right to dream. To hell with that,” he grunted, sitting down in Misumi’s chair once more. “If we needed that sort of thing, I’d never have been able to act with autumn troupe.

“Don’t give up. The performance hasn’t ended yet. Don’t think, ‘ _this is going to turn out the same as before’_. You’re going to pull through this time for sure, right?”

Kumon blinked once, twice. Tears were beginning to bubble up underneath his eyes, causing his vision to blur and his hiccupping to increase drastically. _The performance will be over soon, though,_ he couldn’t help but think, sinking back underneath his comforter, _and then I’ll be all alone again._

In the end, he always was.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

A knocking at the door startled Kumon out of his sleepy haze, jolting him awake quicker than a baseball to the head would have. His fever had only gotten worse as time went on, causing everything to seem louder; whether it be the running sink or squeal of a chair, it was all overwhelming. “Yes?” Misumi responded for him, a sad smile on his face as his gaze flicked from the purple-haired boy to the door.

Tenma was the one who shoved the door open, looking far too optimistic for their current predicament. “There he is!” _He’s awfully cheerful?_

“Hurry, hurry!” Kazunari sang. Tufts of his hair could be seen just over Tenma’s head, jumping up and down in time with his words. Kumon would have laughed at how silly it looked if his throat wasn’t drier than the Sahara Desert.

“Hey, don’t shove me,” Yuki grumbled from beside Tenma, his arms crossed and his face screwed up irritably. _That’s typical for him, but what are they doing here?_

Kazunari did exactly what the boy told him _not_ to do, pushing his shoulder so he could step in front of all of them. “Ah, long time no see! Do you remember us?” His face was also lit up with a grin, like he was in the center of a music-blaring party and not a sick boy’s room.

“Mukumi was _so_ rude that I’m sure you didn’t,” Yuki piped up after shooting Kazunari a half-hearted glare, clearly not pleased with the blatant lack of self-awareness.

Tenma grabbed Yuki’s arm and grinned like those high school girls in teen dramas typically did. “We’re very sorry about that, but today we brought someone who really wanted to see you, Kumon.” Yuki side-eyed him, scowl plastered onto his face, but was yet again ignored.

Banri strolled in next, one hand in his pocket and the other in his hair. “Heya, it’s Bambi.” _Bambi? Like that white-spotted fawn in Disney movies?_

“Sorry for barging in,” Izumi said, bowing awkwardly. Still, despite her nervous posture, the polite smile on her face stayed the same as always, comforting and warm.

Kumon frowned, looking back and forth between his visitors. “Everyone? Director?” His head was swimming with questions, but the most obvious was; _what are they doing here and not in the rehearsal room? They can’t waste time on me like this!_

“Wow! You’re so cute, just like on Insta!” Banri drawled smoothly, leaning forward so his bangs fell directly over his eyes. “ _Juko_ , come over here, too.” _Juko?_

If Yuki was Yukiko, Banri was Bambi, and Muku was Mukumi, then that had to make Juko… “You mean nii-chan?” Heart swelling, he craned his neck to see behind the crowd, desperate for even a glimpse of his older brother.

Low and behold, it was Juza who pushed his way to his bed, hands shaking and eyes drifting. “Come on, tell him!” Kazunari chirped, hands clasped together in front of his chest.

“You’re going to confess, right?” Yuki added on.

At that, Muku broke character for just a second, cheeks pink. “Ju-chan…”

Juza took a deep breath and then said, with the stiffest back known to man, “I love you, you know.”

There were many things Kumon had expected to happen when he got sick. He expected to be fired, he expected to be kicked out, he expected to be scolded.

What he didn’t expect, however, was for his brother to come in with the worst theater etiquette he’d ever seen and even worse posture.

Tenma’s wheeze proved that the actors didn’t quite expect that, either. “This is,” Banri snickered.

“Keep it together,” Yuki said blankly, although his shoulders were shaking, too, as pointed out by Kazunari. It seemed as if everyone there was in some state of shock, red-faced and teary-eyed.

It didn’t take long for Kumon to break into laughter, too, his body trembling and his throat aching. “Nii-chan, you’re so stiff!” He exclaimed between giggles. For once, his heart was pounding because of something other than lack of breath.

“Kumon,” Juza said warningly, but that only made Kumon laugh louder.

“Agh, my stomach hurts,” he complained once he’d eased up, but his smile still didn’t fade.

Tenma finally let go of Yuki’s arm, instead opting to dust off his shirt and sit down at the end of Kumon’s bed. “So I see you have the energy to laugh, at least,” he pointed out happily.

Upon seeing everyone’s looks of pity, his smile was replaced by quivering lips and wet cheeks. “Tenma-san,” he murmured, playing with the top of his blanket in an attempt to busy his hands.

“You saw him,” Tenma continued, ignoring the tears that were becoming increasingly more obvious on his face. “Juza-san, who you admire so much, acts like that.” His eyes shimmered as he said that, as if he was reflecting the whole sun.

Juza made a noise of embarrassment in response, sinking to the ground, and Banri patted his back. Whether he was trying to comfort or tease him further, nobody in that room could ever be sure.

“But Juza-san’s acting made you laugh. ‘ _I want to perform adlibs smoothly_ ’; you don’t need to get caught up with complicated things like that. As long as you want to make the guests–the audience–laugh, you’re set,” Tenma explained, head tilted. “You joined summer troupe because you wanted to make someone smile through comedy, right?”

Kumon thought it over for a moment and then nodded. “Yeah,” he muttered. _But still, how is that supposed to help me? I don’t know_ how _to make someone smile._

“That’s right, Kyu-chan,” Muku began where the leader left off, his hand finding its place on Kumon’s head. “Acting isn’t like baseball; it’s not about winning or losing. We don’t have to get a gold medal. We’re allowed to get a bronze one. The only thing we have to think about is making everyone smile,” he finished his statement off with a smile of his own. If kindness had a face, it would surely take the form of his.

Kumon looked from his cousin to everyone else, and all at once, the things they’d been trying to teach him all this time finally clicked. It felt like he was getting his first homerun; blood rushed to his face, his shoulders relaxed, and if he tried hard enough, he could almost hear the cheers from the stand.

“We can lose, all we have to do is make everyone smile,” he thought aloud, eyes wide. “Yeah… I want to make everyone smile. Not just the audience, but nii-chan, Muku, director, and everyone else in the summer troupe.” As he said this, his thoughts flashed back to Azami for just a second. _I want to make him smile too… one more laugh, and then I’ll be satisfied._

“Looks like you’re almost back to your usual self,” Yuki said, leaning on the doorframe.

“Kumopi, that’s the spirit!” Kazunari cheered, pumping his fists in the air like an overexcited child who just got first string.

Misumi nodded along. “Let’s stand on stage together tomorrow.”

“Yes!” Kumon agreed immediately, and for the first time in a while, he believed it. _I want to stand on that stage,_ he realized. _I want to act with them. I want to be someone they and everyone else here can be proud of._

“Then do your best to get better,” Tenma stood back up and sent a motivating grin.

_Is that too much to ask for?_

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Even as he sat in the dressing room and watched his own reflection twist and turn, he still couldn’t believe it; his fever had broken merely hours before showtime, leaving him feeling a bit icky but more so than that, proud.

Everything he’d ever worked towards, all of his newfound dreams that he thought would never come true, were now only an arm’s length away. Just one more inch, a few more steps forward–

“Geez, you look like a zombie,” were the first words out of Azami’s mouth, but they broke him out of his thoughts nonetheless. And he was right; he was deathly pale, more so than he’d ever been before, but in that moment, he couldn’t even find it in himself to care. He was _there_ , prepared to go on stage. Did anything else really matter?

With a smile, he tilted his head forward. “That’s why I want you to fix it with makeup!” He exclaimed, eager to get started. The sooner he got done, the sooner he could stand on stage with everyone else. (Or, at least, that’s what it seemed like to his drowsy brain.)

Azami sighed, looked him up and down, and then reached into his supply bag. “Guess I’ll have to… Here, I’ll use this for you.” Upon saying that, he pulled out an edged brush with a magenta handle and held it out so he could see. “It’s special.”

“A brush?” Kumon asked, raising a brow.

“Yes,” Azami said, already having begun to paint on foundation and clumps of powder. “It’s a cheek brush. Now sit quietly.” Kumon obeyed, not opening his mouth even one more time until his work was all done, more out of fear of what would happen if he didn’t than anyone else. (Plus, being so close gave him a chance to really look at him, other than when he was ordered to close his eyes.)

_This is really happening,_ he thought, smiling to himself. _I’m finally going to see something through till the end._

This time, he was sure nothing he did could mess it all up.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Out of all the actors on stage, Yuki looked the most confident in his own body. He stood tall, surveying all of them with a certain kind of distaste that Kumon was sure Washimiya would wear like a trophy. “Now that I’m here, we’re aiming for the Koshien.”

“Eh?” Kumon yelped. Although his fever had gone down, he could still feel the bile in his throat regardless, but unlike most times, all it did was fuel the fire roaring in his heart. He _would_ get through this play. He had to.

From the corner of his eye, he could see Muku’s face contort into one of mock confusion. “The Koshien?” He asked as if he’d never heard the word before in his life, bottom lip turned down.

“You’ve gotta be stupid,” Tenma said, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms. He met Yuki’s gaze with a similar glare, eyes narrowed suspiciously. “How are we gonna get there with five club members?”

Yuki stopped in his pacing. “Five? You only have five members?”

“We can’t even have a practice game,” Tenma confirmed, nodding.

Kumon raised his hand and tried his best to conceal the way it shook with excitement. “But we’ll do our best to gather more members!” He declared, putting his foot down in a way he’d wished he could have done years ago, when he really was standing on a baseball field.

Tenma turned over to him, looking at him with such intensity that Kumon felt his own knees knock. Whether it was from euphoria or how his shoes felt like blocks of metal weighing him down, he wasn’t sure. Still, he fought to keep his stare even. “You just barely managed to get five.”

“Well, I– “ for the first time since his first rehearsal, none of the stuttering mess that spilled from his lips was real in the slightest.

Yuki put up a hand to silence them, expression hard but determined. “That’s fine. I can easily get us five members by tomorrow.”

“What?” Tenma turned his nose up. “How?”

Lines came and went in a rhythm that Kumon could feel in his bones; they were in sync, more in sync than they’d ever been before. _Just keep going like this,_ he reminded himself as he ran from stage left to stage right. _You’ve come too far to give up now._

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

No matter how many times he told himself he could make it through, no matter how many times he’d imagined what it would be like to pull through this damn show, no amount of words could explain how it felt for it to really be happening. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, tears bubbled at his eyes, and all he could think was, _I did it. I really did it._

Misumi took one look at him and then wrapped his arms around Kumon’s waist like Juza used to when they were younger. “There, there!” He chirped happily.

Tenma’s voice carried a sense of irritation but judging by the hand he brought up to pat Kumon’s head, that wasn’t anywhere near what he was really feeling. “You’re crying too much.”

“Kumopi, you worked so hard!” Kazunari praised from beside him, smiling wider than anyone else there. “You were really good!”

Muku agreed happily, and when Kumon looked up to face him, he could see that there were tears dripping down his chin, as well. Yuki was in a similar state, albeit a bit more stone-faced. “Oh dear, you both look terrible,” his insult carried no true weight.

Tenma side-eyed him, but even he couldn’t hide the soft smile that crossed over his face upon seeing the bliss that glistened in Yuki’s eyes. “Azami’s gonna yell at you all later,” he pointed out.

_Right, Azami!_ Kumon wiped at his face furiously and looked around the crowd, desperate to see even a glimpse of his friend, and just as he hoped, Azami was easy to find. He sat in the front, hands squeezing his knees and eyes bright amidst the colorful stage lights. Among the rest of the audience, he looked by far the happiest. Kumon could just barely see a smile hidden behind his turtleneck sweater, and he craned his neck as if trying to get a better look at the stage.

Pride built up in Kumon’s chest as they made eye contact and, instead of looking away like he often did, Azami held his gaze, one eyebrow raised. _I made him smile,_ Kumon thought, tugging a hand to his chest.

_I really did it._

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Kumon wasn’t surprised to see Azami eating on the front porch rather than with the rest of the actors, and while the idea of partying with the rest of his troupe sounded fun, sticking with the makeup artist was far more appealing, so it didn’t take long for him make up his mind. Kumon slammed the door shut and dropped down beside Azami, kicking out his legs. “Azami, there you are!”

Azami glanced over him, all signs of pride gone besides the twinkling of stars in his eyes. “What is it?” He asked, dropping his hotdog down onto the paper plate.

“Why are you eating out here alone?” Kumon asked, leaning back on his hands and sending a curious glance Azami’s way.

Azami just shrugged. “I’m an outsider. Plus I don’t like noise,” he explained simply, face carefully blank. While his voice was cold and awkward, Kumon noticed he couldn’t easily hide the quiet happiness that it carried.

“But you’re the makeup artist!” Kumon argued. _He’s done so much for us! He can’t possibly be an outsider, not anymore._ He was sure the rest of Mankai, putting aside Sakyo’s complicated opinion, felt the same.

“I only did it because things happened to turn out that way,” he protested, shaking his head and poking at his food. “There’s nothing more to it.”

Kumon shook his head and leaned forward. “You still really helped me out! The audience didn’t even notice I was sick because of your makeup, so thanks for that!” He exclaimed, waving his hands around wildly. “If you use that makeup brush every time I get a fever, I won’t have to worry about anxiety at all.”

“I’m gonna start charging you next time,” Azami said, causing Kumon’s jaw to drop to the floor.

“Eh? How much?” He yelped, finally squeezing his mouth shut.

A smirk of clear amusement replaced Azami’s hard expression, lighting up his face more than the sun did the sky. “100,000 yen a turn,” he answered breezily, voice a gentle melody carried out by the wind. Kumon found himself wanting to bask in that warm glow in his eyes forever, more than he’d ever wanted anything before.

“Expensive, but doable,” he joked after a second of tense silence, glancing out at the street.

“If you’re lucky, you won’t need it,” Azami pointed out, raising a hand in a shrugging gesture.

Kumon laughed gently, still not looking away from the ongoers that came and went down the sidewalk. “Ahh, yeah, I think I’ll be fine now. For the first time, I managed to pull through with everyone else. That really took a burden off my heart,” he said, tilting his head to finally meet Azami’s waiting eyes. “It’s like nothing scares me anymore, knowing that I can do just as much as anyone else.

“As long as I remember how this feels, it doesn’t matter how many times my worries come to bite me; I’m sure I’ll be able to make it till the end.” Azami’s expression was one of obvious understanding, his eyebrows furrowed and his lip twitching.

He paused for a moment and then said, “…is that so.” It was more of a statement than a question, so Kumon didn’t bother to answer, instead opting to scan his porcelain face for any evidence of why exactly he felt the way he did. Even after so many months of butterflies in his stomach and spiders in his throat, he still couldn’t put a real name to the way it felt to look into Azami’s green eyes. More than anything else, it felt like a home he’d never known, a song that he’d never heard yet somehow knew all the lyrics to.

“You’re never alone when you do theater,” he said absentmindedly, all the while playing with the pocket of his sweatpants. “You don’t need to take the pressure alone; that’s the whole point! Just keep in mind that your goal is to make the audience laugh, not nail all of your lines, and things will work out fine.”

He shrugged. “It must have been that way on the mound, too. I had my teammates with me, so I didn’t need to think the pitcher should pull off a shut-out on his own. They were fighting by my side, and because I never realized that, I hurt those around me.”

“Isn’t it good that you realized that now?” Azami asked, bringing Kumon’s gaze back up to his face. They stared at each other for a moment, both looking for something that they’d probably never find, and then Kumon giggled.

“Having teammates is great, huh?” He danced around the question like it was his own little act, instead looking back at the sky once more. _And maybe you’ll be my teammate someday, too, and I’ll never have to worry about you leaving me behind._

He looked back at Azami and solemnly swore that he was thinking the same thing.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

There was nothing more romantic than confessing under a flower-filled sakura tree.

…Or at least, that was what Wikihow told Kumon when he searched up, ‘ _how to confess to your crush cheap._ ’ So that’s why he was sitting at the trunk of a blindly pink tree, trying to figure out what possessed him to think _this_ of all things was a good idea.

Back when he was younger, the romance novels he read consisted of only girls and boys. There were no teenage boys in love, no teenage boys handing out letters sealed with heart stamps or blushing under the sunlight. And yet there he was, breaking the norms and regretting every second of it.

_Maybe I should just give up,_ he considered, tapping his index finger on the grass under him. _I’ll apologize for blowing him off and then we’ll go on like nothing happened. It’s foolproof!_

Plus, he wasn’t sure how well he’d take it if Azami were to (unsurprisingly) reject him. He would never be able to face him again, much less share a stage. _Yeah, I’ve gotta go._

Strong winds attempted to hold him back, pulling and pushing him to the ground, but he fought against it to begin his trek home, eyes glued on the road ahead. “Kumon?” Too bad the main event had already arrived before he could make his escape.

At the sound of his name, Kumon twirled around, eyes as wide as the moon. Time seemed to stop when they made eye contact, green meeting yellow, and suddenly, he couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t like when he had panic attacks and felt like he was being strangled from behind; rather it felt like he’d been smacked right in the gut, left winded and shocked.

His heart pounded like crazy, but he tried his best to ignore it as he answered, “oh, Azami!” He perked up once he’d gotten over his initial awe, hands clapping together behind his back as quietly as possible. _What the heck was he supposed to say?_ “I was just going to look for you,” he chose to lie, because what else was he to do?

Azami raised a brow but moved to stand in front of him regardless, hands tucked into his pockets and eyes blank. “This is a weird place to meetup. Did you need something?” He looked guarded as he glanced at the petal-coated ground, like they’d just met all over again.

“No!” Kumon jumped to respond, waving his hands around. “Or, well yes, but nothing from _you_ ,” he corrected just after, kicking his shoe into the ground. _How can I get out of this quickly?_

“Okay?” The makeup artist responded, mouth twisted into a concerned frown. “You’re acting weird. Don’t tell me this is some elaborately set up prank,” he said. Kumon would have responded if the way Azami’s hair twisted and curled in the wind wasn’t so damn mesmerizing.

“Hello?” He said, waving a hand in front of the purple-haired boy’s face. “Stop messing around, I have things to do.” Even with his less than kind tone of voice, his eyes painted a different picture, filled to the brim with curiosity and worry.

“Sorry,” Kumon apologized sheepishly, rubbing his neck. “I’m just not exactly sure how to tell you this. But it’s nothing bad, I promise!” _Unless you take it wrong,_ he thought but didn’t say.

Azami sighed but sat down at the trunk of the tree regardless, patting the ground beside him in a silent invitation, to which Kumon followed suit. He made sure there was just enough room that they weren’t touching, but even so, the closeness took his breath away all over again, leaving him hot-faced and shaky.

_Well, there’s no avoiding it now,_ he thought, but right once he opened his mouth to speak, Azami interrupted him. “You do realize that I wasn’t lying when I said this was a weird place to meet, right? Only people hoping to confess love gather under sakura trees,” he said carefully, still looking ahead, and maybe it was the sleep deprivation, or possibly even his choked breaths, but in that moment, he couldn’t help but blurt out–

“That’s what I’m trying to do!” He said the words all at once, to the point where they blended together and sounded more like one big nonsense word than a full sentence. Azami whipped his head around to stare at him, mouth agape and cheeks almost as pink as Kumon’s must have been.

“Don’t joke about that!” He squawked, but his voice didn’t carry the same kind of punch it usually did, instead overtaken by a tone that Kumon couldn’t quite place amidst all the feelings raging in his own chest. “Love is very serious, you can’t just throw the word around!”

_To hell with it._ Kumon reached out and grabbed the hand that Azami was flailing around, affectively stilling it. “But I’m not!” He argued, trying his best to keep calm despite the ringing in his ears. “I’m being completely, one hundred percent serious!”

“No you’re not,” Azami protested. He shook his head frantically but didn’t pull his hand away, instead leaving it laying in Kumon’s. It took everything in his willpower to _not_ over analyze everything about that small decision.

“Yes I _am_!” He fought back, trying to force all of his feelings into just those three words. “Stop trying to tell me I’m lying when I’m _not_! I’m in love with you Azami,” and then he paused, tilted his head, and added, “I think so, anyways. I’ve never really felt this way about anyone before.”

“Then you are lying,” Azami sighed, hanging his head, most likely in exhaustion.

“Not lying, just not completely certain how far this goes,” Kumon said, squeezing his hand for emphasis. _God, what am I doing?_ He couldn’t help but wonder, lip quivering. “It’s okay if you don’t feel the same way, I just wanted you to know.”

Azami raised his head just slightly and scanned his face, mouth twisted into a scowl. Seconds went by like hours, minutes went by like days, and then he finally relented, puffing out his cheeks. “Well, I guess if it makes you feel better, I’m not sure how far these feelings go, either.” He pulled his hand away and shook it out a bit, face going even redder than it had been before.

“What feelings?” Kumon asked, leaning backwards. “Yours or mine?”

“Both,” he grumbled back, looking away pointedly. “When I look at you, I start burning up and I don’t know how to form words,” Azami explained, still not sparing Kumon even a glance.

“You sure don’t act like it!” All that response earned was a softer-than-usual glare. “But I feel the same.”

Azami was silent for a second, as if he were going over his options, and then his face eased up, eyes brightening. “Do you?”

“Yup,” Kumon nodded as he spoke, voice quiet and hesitant. “So… does that mean you accept?” Air blew wildly around them as he awaited his answer, frigid and frostbite-worthy, only further reminding Kumon of the jacket he’d accidentally left back at the dorms.

“Accept what?”

“My confession.”

“ _That’s what this was?_ ” Azami jolted despite having literally been the one to point it out in the first place, face redder than the tomatoes Azuma often mixed into his salads.

Kumon blinked once, twice, three times, and then broke into giggles, nearly falling onto his side in ecstasy. “Really? You didn’t know?” He gasped out between laughs, eyes suddenly full of tears. “What did you think I was doing? Just telling you to tell you?” Where some laughter fell, more bubbled up in his throat, spilling out into the space between them like a song with no rhythm.

Azami coughed loudly, but when Kumon looked back at him, he could see that he was sporting a tiny smile, too. “Are you going to let me answer or will you keep cutting me off?” He asked, rolling his eyes.

Kumon quieted almost immediately, but his grin never faded. “Sorry, sorry. You’ll answer?”

They just looked at each other for a second, neither daring to so much as breathe, and then Azami sighed. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” The purple-haired boy sat up automatically, nose twitching. “Yeah like you accept? Yeah like we can go on a date and walk around holding hands and– “

“Woah, woah,” Azami snapped his fingers. “Don’t go that far,” but then he looked away innocently, a smile growing on his pink face. “But yeah. I’ll go on a date with you.”

Kumon jumped forward to grab his hand and squeeze it again, if only just to see Azami’s cheeks go rosy once more. “Great! Good! That’s good! Thank you!”

The black-haired boy side-eyed him for a moment and then squeezed back. “Yeah.”

Wikihow was right, under the sakura tree truly was the best place to confess. Among velvety pink petals, Azami looked softer and more beautiful than ever. Stars twinkled in his eyes, his hair blew perfectly in the breeze, his lips looked softer than a fresh fruit.

In that moment, Kumon was certain all the heartache they’d gone through was worth it, because no matter how many people they lost, or how many tears were shed, they still found each other in the end.

The heart that used to feel like a confusing puzzle now felt full and warm; nothing was better than that. (Except maybe the warm hand that currently sat in his own.)

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! this is actually my longest one shot that i've written in years and took more than a week. it was a lot of fun to explore what makes azami and kumon who they are, and i hope you enjoyed it, too! if you did, please leave a comment (and kudos). it really encourages me to post more stuff for you all!! my tumblr is xxxbookaholic if you're interested :)
> 
> have a nice rest of your day/night!


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